


To The Port I See The Lighthouse Through The Sleet and Rain

by umbrellaofshame



Series: Our complications make us who we are [3]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - College/University, Breathplay, Communication, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom Ross, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Safewords, Sub Smith, Switch Trott, University AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7815349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrellaofshame/pseuds/umbrellaofshame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Sleeping with the Enemy" and "Stepping Into A Hurricane," BDSM University AU. Smith is struggling with his issues around being a Sub, and gets seriously in over his head at a house party. Ross and Trott help him deal with the aftermath, but this may change the way Smith thinks about both of them. Has Smith really blown it for good this time? (hint: no)</p>
<p>Starring Alex "Overthinks Everything But Still Fucks Up Sometimes" Smith, Chris "Don't Fucking Touch Him" Trott and Ross "Wants Everyone to Bond Through Sleepovers" Hornby.</p>
<p>(additional tags may be added later)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: trying not to be too spoilery, but explanation of the dub-con tag
> 
> This chapter contains serious dub-con between one of the main characters and an OC. It later leans towards non-con, because the OC ignores clear signals that the MC wants this to stop. THIS IS NOT NEGOTIATED AHEAD OF TIME. This includes description of a character being very anxious and pressured in a sorta-sexual situation (though it doesn’t get too far). If you are uncomfortable at all with this, please avoid if you want to, and next chapter will be on to the comfort goodness so you can just skip ahead to there <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: trying not to be too spoilery, but explanation of the dub-con tag
> 
> This chapter contains serious dub-con between one of the main characters and an OC. It later leans towards non-con, because the OC ignores clear signals that the MC wants this to stop. THIS IS NOT NEGOTIATED AHEAD OF TIME. This includes description of a character being very anxious and pressured in a sorta-sexual situation (though it doesn’t get too far). If you are uncomfortable at all with this, please avoid if you want to, and next chapter will be on to the comfort goodness so you can just skip ahead to there <3

The music is so loud that it feels as if it’s vibrating Smith’s lungs, and he can barely tell if this song has words, let alone what they are. He bounces one of his legs along irritably to the beat anyway, and he glimpses Trott shoot him a half-concerned, half-exasperated look, his expression still clearly visible even through the darkness and the flashing lights of the shitty disco lamp on the other side of the room. Smith glances away, shifting forward a little in his seat and pretending to check what song the guy manning the massive iPod speakers is putting on next, and takes a swig of his drink. It’s too warm - both his drink and the atmosphere in the room, which is muggy with the crowd of people’s bodies. At least they’d managed to snag a spot on the sofa. Smith really wants to check his phone for the time again, but he knows Trott will notice, and he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of having read him so easily. Still, he’s tempted. Ross was supposed to be here by now, surely. Damn, Smith needs to see him again. He should’ve brought his fucking watch.

 

The house party is hosted by some guy Smith doesn’t know and hasn’t seen since he opened the door to him and Trott about half an hour ago. His name is Duncan, apparently - he’s on their course, and Trott and Ross both know him, but he’s managed to slip past Smith’s radar, typical. Smith always seems to get stuck in seminar groups with the antisocial nerds. When Ross had brought up the party yesterday via text, Smith reluctantly admitted that Trott was planning to go, and naturally Ross persuaded him to come along too so they could all meet up. Smith feels pretty irritated that he agreed, now, but if he was honest, all he was thinking was that this was an opportunity to see Ross that little bit sooner. Ross’s last exam had finished that afternoon, but he’d been swept up by his celebrating course mates, obviously, and had very apologetically texted Smith, saying he’d see him later. Smith had pretended to be cool with it.

 

The trouble is, spending time with Ross, time as a Sub (properly, safely, comfortably) for the first time in his life, has been like scratching an itch that had gone firmly unacknowledged (and the very thought of it suppressed to hell) for most of Smith’s adult life. And for good reason. Because now it’s fucking _demanding_ to be scratched, and Smith hates feeling so fucking needy, but he also hasn’t got the willpower to pretend the urge isn’t there. It’s really hard, feeling like this, feeling so dependent on someone else, and the brief separation over exams has made it even worse. The fear that Ross will just have got fed up and break the whole thing off has been building silently, day by day. 

 

Smith looks dully in the direction of two girls dancing very enthusiastically together, and takes another sip of his drink. God, how can he be this needy already? The fact that Ross even proposed this ‘break’ at all surely suggests that this means less to him than it does to Smith, surely? Has this whole thing been the standard Dom/Sub stereotype come to life - Subs pathetic and gagging for it, Doms distant and disinterested? The whole thing makes him feel resentful and rebellious and nervy, and yet he’s still waiting for Ross like an eager dog expecting its master.

 

Still, it feels like he and Trott have been sitting on this mangy sofa listening to this shitty music (Jesus Christ not Kesha _again_ ) for ages now, and despite Ross’s promise that he would meet them there, there’s been no sign yet. Trott seems perfectly happy, chatting along with some guy he’s only just met, his sharp elbows digging into Smith every now and again when he makes a particularly extravagant gesture. Smith wishes he had Trott’s easy charm, but his own natural setting is “loud and boisterous”, except he only feels comfortable bringing it out around people he knows, so he struggles to ingratiate himself with new people without either seeming sullen and shy, or too over-the-top. He’s no good at this crap - he’d prefer to be in a club, where everyone is too smashed to care or to judge him, and even if he lets a Sub instinct slip, no one will notice or remember.

 

Ugh, where the fuck is Ross? 

 

Doubt creeps into Smith’s chest. Fuck, maybe it’s happened already . Maybe he’s got fed up of Smith, but hasn’t got the balls to let him know face-to-face. He’s found someone else. Decided Smith was too high maintenance, too needy. Maybe he’s too insecure, too Subby, too much of a doormat. Or maybe he isn’t Subby enough - too loud maybe? It wasn’t like Doms hadn’t made that kind of comment in the past. Maybe…

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he practically claws it out of his too-tight jeans. 

 

_sorry running late one of my housemates had to go buy beer so we missed the bus, twat_

 

Smith knows he must be pretty tipsy already, because he has to fight the temptation to send back a text like “why the fuck didn’t you just leave him to get his own booze” or “I need you here to pound me into this horrible sofa” or “oh god I just want to be on my knees for you right now”, but swallows back those impulses and goes for a overly-relaxed “ _cool, no probs_ ” instead. 

 

He glances back at Trott, who nods and points to his phone. He says something, but the fucking music is too loud for Smith to make it out. He makes a “can’t hear you” hand gesture and leans closer. Trott mirrors the movement. His body is warm, and he smells of cheap beer. When he yells into Smith’s ear, his breath is warm too.

 

“Ross on his way?!”

 

“Yeah!” Smith shouts back. 

 

“Good, you’re looking like a fucking… lonely housewife waiting for him!” 

 

“Fuck off,” Smith says, more than a little irritably. He knows it’s selfish and jealous of him to be annoyed with Trott, happy and comfortable with his Switch status, making friends left, right, and centre, but he just can’t help it. It makes his skin crawl to think he’s just sitting here timidly, almost in silence, just waiting for his Dom to come and get him out of this situation. 

 

“Sorry mate, I didn’t mean it!” Trott yells back, but Smith is already levering himself up off the sofa. The short-haired girl balancing on the arm of it next to him is eyeing his seat with great interest. 

 

“I’m getting another drink!” Smith shouts, miming drinking just in case Trott didn’t get it, and because he’s still pissed, doesn’t offer to get him one as he attempts to slope casually off to the kitchen. This plan is compromised firstly by the clustered group of flimsy garden chairs someone’s dug out of the shed and crammed tightly into the poky lounge in a rough semicircle around the sofas. Secondly, by the sweaty, packed crowd of partygoers attempting to dance. Once he’s managed to squash his way through, however, the kitchen is at least empty and a bit quieter. 

 

Smith swigs the rest of his drink, and then quickly fills his glass with water from the slightly stiff tap. Cool droplets spray up on to his face and hands, but it’s actually quite refreshing. He chugs the water down eagerly, and then draws his dripping hand over his face tiredly, exhaling. He shouldn’t be such a twat to Trott. The guy doesn’t mean any harm. 

 

Shaking the remaining water from the bottom of the glass, Smith opens the small food cupboard beside the washing machine where he stashed his whisky for safe-keeping. It’s not like anyone is looking for tinned soup during a house party, and it saves him clutching it to his chest all evening, or worse, leaving it visible in the kitchen to be nicked by the less scrupulous drunks. He sloshes a generous measure into his glass, and starts glancing around the kitchen for some mixer he can pilfer. 

 

He’s just reaching for a big bottle mostly full of Coke when someone clatters into the kitchen behind him, and he quickly retracts his hand in case it’s the owner of the Coke and turns around casually. 

 

“Hey,” the intruder says, heading for the sink. He’s tall, though not as tall as Smith, and stockier too, with messy dark hair. “You all right?”

 

“Yeah, you?” Smith replies, leaning against the worktop, sipping his neat whisky and trying not to grimace. 

 

“Yeah not too bad,” the guy says, in between gulps of a large Sports Direct mug of water. When he’s finished, he takes a breath and grins at Smith, holding out a hand. “Sorry, guessing you’re off Duncan’s course? I’m one of his housemates, Danny.”

 

“Hey,” Smith says, taking his hand a little awkwardly and shaking it. Decent introductions don’t sit well with him; he’s more used to silent nods and waiting until Trott tells him names later. “Yeah I am, I’m Smith. What course do you do?”

 

“Biology,” Danny says, and turns to root through the forest of alcohol bottles on the worktop, before selecting a vodka bottle, pulling a bit of a face at it, and then adding it to his mug. Smith, reasoning that this guy clearly doesn’t have any drink-stealing morals either, reaches for the Coke again. 

 

“Are you enjoying it?” Smith says, a little stupidly, as he pours. God, he hates making stupid university small talk. 

 

“It’s not too bad, a lot of work though,” Danny says. Unexpectedly, he goes to lean against the kitchen wall opposite Smith, instead of leaving. He crosses one arm loosely around his body and raises his mug of vodka to his mouth for a sip with the other. Smith doesn’t know whether to be repulsed or impressed that he didn’t bother with mixer. But he’s more startled to realise that Danny is actually very good-looking, and the slightly sly curl to his lip shows that he’s noticed Smith’s noticed. His eyes are a dark brown, and his smooth, probably freshly-shaven face shows off an impressive jawline. That tiny spark of rebellion in Smith’s chest is suddenly fanned into a flame. 

 

“Still, biology… I suppose you learn some… interesting stuff,” Smith stumbles. His mind is spinning. His hand is a little sweaty on his glass. Is he flirting? Does he want to be flirting? _No, don’t be stupid, Ross will be coming soon._ Is Ross coming soon? Why the hell shouldn’t he flirt with a guy if he wants to? The attention is flattering and exciting.

 

Danny’s grin widens. His teeth are very white. “Not as interesting as you’d think, unfortunately.” 

 

“Oh no?” God, if this is flirting, it’s got to be the worst flirting Smith has ever done. 

 

“More plant cells than human stuff, I’m afraid,” Danny says apologetically, licking his lips. He’s really obviously checking Smith out now, and Smith can feel his heart beating faster. He takes another gulp of whisky and struggles not to cough. He wonders if the guy’s a Dom. The itch in him feels like it’s building. He feels more conscious of his breathing, the way his T-shirt shifts on his skin, the way he’s been _aching_ for the quiet of being put under for weeks now.

 

“Erm, what a shame, I’m more interested in the human stuff. I could help you… experiment.” The fact that Smith fully acknowledges the corniness of the line allows him to pull it off, raising his eyebrows and glancing at Danny through his eyelashes. Danny laughs - it doesn’t split Smith into giggles like Ross’s laugh does, but it’s good enough. 

 

“Well you never know, I could be persuaded into an extra-curricular project,” Danny suggests. Smith thinks distractedly of whether he’d taste of vodka if they kissed. He doesn’t really like vodka. A second later he worries why that’s the first objection that came into his head. 

 

“Well, I guess it depends if I’d be a suitable subject or not,” Smith answers, licking his own lips, watching with satisfaction as Danny’s eyes drift to his mouth, and trying not to think about how much Ross licks his lips. He flashes his charming, winning smile, and winks.

 

Danny’s eyes sparkle with interest. “Well I saw you earlier on the sofa, looking like a sight for sore eyes in those jeans… And I saw you and your little boyfriend have a bit of a spat, and I thought I’d come and cheer you up.”

 

Smith doesn’t correct the assumption, since it doesn’t seem to be putting the guy off. He wonders whether Ross will be here soon, how he’d respond to the sight of Smith making out with a stranger in the kitchen. Maybe he’d be jealous, angry, protective. A flash of heat goes through him at the thought. The cheap whisky burns his throat as he takes another sip. 

 

“I could do with cheering up,” he admits, and Danny’s smile broadens. He takes a step towards Smith, putting his vodka on the worktop. 

 

“I think I know what you need,” he says quietly, and then suddenly he’s pressing Smith against the wall, one hand in his hair, pulling it back sharply, kissing him hard. Smith is so startled that he nearly drops his whisky. Danny _does_ taste of vodka, but more than that, he’s demanding and yes (as he gives Smith’s hair a non-too-playful tug), very dominant. Smith’s stomach flips. Oh God, what has he gotten himself into? Messing around with a strange Dom he’s barely met, just to try and get Ross jealous? This feels like the mother of all bad ideas.

 

But then he thinks of Ross and his mates, late and laughing, probably not giving Smith a second thought. He thinks of waiting sheepishly for Ross to arrive, feeling uncomfortable and anxious and desperate to be put under. He thinks of not feeling like he fits in as a Sub or as a Dom, and the fact that this guy seems to think he’s good enough to give some attention to. And before he knows it, a wave of insecurity and rebellion and anger and lust crashes over him, and he returns the kiss, shoving back a little against Danny’s mouth. 

 

He feels Danny smile into the kiss, and then he pulls back a little. His face looks a little blurry, up this close. Maybe Smith is drunker than he’d thought. 

 

“Good?” Danny asks, and gives another rough tug on Smith’s hair, leaving Smith’s reply lost in a gasp. He blindly arches his head up, baring his neck, before he’s thought about what he’s doing. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His stomach twists again with either fear or arousal, he can’t tell which. If he clenches his eyes shut, he can pretend it’s Ross ( _stop it this is fucked up_ ). Danny kisses him again, and Smith reacts instinctively, kissing back, trying to block out the screaming doubts in his head, the taste of whisky still hot at the back of his throat, feeling unsteady now without his sight to stabilise him. 

 

“We’re going to have fun, aren’t we?” Danny breathes hotly in his ear, and part of Smith feels trapped and repulsed by it, wanting to pull away, but he’s in too deep now. Half of him is trying to pretend this is Ross kissing him, half of him is hoping Ross is seconds away from walking into the kitchen and dragging him away. He feels hot and shivery and terrified and turned on, and hell, this is going too fast…

 

Before he knows it they’re kissing again, except this time Danny is leaning in even closer, and the unrelenting pressure on first his hair, then his shoulder, makes Smith realise that he’s trying to force him to his knees. Fuck. No, no, no.

 

“No,” he manages to murmur against Danny’s lips, and he misses the stubble of Ross’s jaw as he pulls back. Behind Danny, in the lounge, the song changes, and there’s a whoop from the guests. It seems to bring Danny back to his senses for a moment, though he’s still crowding too close to Smith, one hand now curled possessively around the back of his neck. His body is too warm for comfort, hemming Smith in.

 

“You’re right,” Danny says, and he seems out of breath, mouth too red, a faint sheen of sweat gathering above his top lip. His eyes are a little wild. “Can’t do it here, anyone could walk in.”

 

“No,” Smith weakly protests, but Danny grabs him and drags him closer again before he can properly get the words out.

 

“Let’s go outside,” he whispers roughly. “It’ll be private, if we can avoid the smokers.”

 

Smith’s mind is a blur. It’s a mixture of the whisky, his fear, his arousal, his crumbling common sense, and now the _overwhelming, insistent pressure_ practically rolling off Danny in waves. His remark hadn’t been phrased as a question, because it wasn’t - it was a command, and he’s laid the Dom influence on so strongly that Smith is almost powerless to resist. His legs force him to stumble forward, and he can’t take his eyes off Danny’s white, bright grin as he opens the back door and the two of them lurch into the garden.

 

The cooler air is a shock and a blessing on his overheated skin, and he tries to shake his head to clear it. But before he can say something, Danny has forced him against the rough exterior wall of the house and begun kissing him again, one of his hands roaming upwards into Smith’s shirt. Somewhere, at the back of his consciousness, Smith can hear the vague chatter of the smokers and the faint smell of their weed and tobacco, but they're out of sight around the side of the house. 

 

“Come on, baby,” Danny growls, punctuating his words with an aggressive nip to Smith’s lower lip. “Pay attention. I want you on your _knees_ , understand?”

 

Smith manages to shake his head. He feels dizzy and disorientated. His lip doesn’t feel painful - in fact, it feels numb. His legs, too. He reaches up weakly to push Danny away, but he catches Smith’s hands easily and pins them to the wall. Smith’s stomach swoops unpleasantly. It’s what Ross would have done, but it feels wrong, so wrong. 

 

“I said,” Danny says, and this time his voice holds an angry edge. “ _Your knees_. Or are you deaf, bitch?”

 

Smith feels like he’s about to hyperventilate. The pressure of Danny, physically and mentally, is overwhelming. He’s trapped here, he can’t get away, and there’s nothing he can do to stop this. His heart is beating unpleasantly fast, and now he feels cold all over. He can’t stop thinking of _other times_ \- a horrible mixture of old partners, with occasional flashes of Ross, and then back to the sickening, devastating _wrongness_ he’d felt with other Doms. The whole mess of tangled thoughts whirls in his head, and his one coherent thought is somehow of Trott, holding him one time as he cried, aged sixteen, after he’d come back from some guy’s house with a black eye and a split lip.

 

“Trott!” he attempts to yell, though it comes out more as a strangled yelp, and then Danny is  _forcing him under_ , and his last grip on his own body vanishes, and he falls helplessly to his knees. He’s only fainted once in his life, but the feeling is identical - sudden, inescapable cold darkness flooding every inch of him all at once. He doesn’t even feel his knees hitting the concrete paving. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek, I'm really excited to see what you guys think of this chapter! I've been planning and thinking about it for so long, inspired by suggestions in the comments firstly from lala and then by ghostofgatsby, so thank you very much to them! (let this serve as a lesson that I'm better at writing than I am at coming up with ideas, so I love to take concepts from comments and run with them!!) Next chapter is written (though needs some work) so should be up soon, but after that I will need some more help and may have a short hiatus. Thank you also to rathernotsay for the encouragement on tumblr, and to vexedbeverage for the excellent title (and to everyone else who gave ideas)! Comments are love, as always, love you guys xxx


	2. Chapter 2

For what feels like hours, but is probably only a minute or so at most, there is nothing. Smith is under so deep that he can’t see, can’t hear, can’t feel, can’t _think_. His mind is a rushing, black, stormy turmoil of _what_ _Danny wants_ , and he’s completely powerless against the onslaught.

 

And then suddenly, with a massive disorientating swell of sound, like emerging from underwater in a busy public pool, the control is released. Smith immediately topples over on to the paving slabs, and thinks vaguely that they seem very cold against his cheek. 

 

“Get the fuck away from him!” someone is yelling.

 

After a few moments, and a few deep, quiet breaths, Smith manages to peer through his half-closed eyes to see what’s going on. Even the darkness of the garden seems far too bright - there’s light spilling out from the open kitchen door. There’s a huddled shape on the ground, with a smaller figure standing over it. Smith wants to sit up and see what’s going on, but he feels almost paralysed. His limbs are so heavy. He feels like he’s still under somehow - he feels unmoored, untethered, his mind distant from his body. He closes his eyes again. He can hear other voices - some sound angry, others sympathetic. 

 

Suddenly there’s a light touch on his arm, and he’d flinch away if he could.

 

“Smith? Smith? Are you OK? Can you hear me? It’s Trott.”

 

Smith summons the energy to open his eyes again. It’s even brighter now - someone has got their phone light on, and it feels like the cold white beam is sending daggers into his skull. But Trott’s face in front of him is blocking out most of it. Smith tries to focus on him. His hair is messy. His dark eyes look concerned, and the hand on Smith’s shoulder is shaking slightly. 

 

“Can you talk, Smith?” 

 

Smith struggles to shift his head back and forth, but the effort is enormous. Trott seems to understand though, because he grips his shoulder a little tighter, and touches a hand gently to his forehead.

 

“It’s OK, I’ve got you. I’m going to try and help, OK? Alex?”

 

Smith blinks slowly, trying to show he understands. Trott manages a feeble smile. “OK. Shit, I wish Ross was here. Here goes.”

 

Smith lets his eyes close again, and somehow he can _feel_ Trott pulling him out of that deep darkness. His hand on Smith’s face is warm and comforting, the other on his shoulder holding him firmly, his presence grounding him. It’s the first time he’s really seen (or more accurately, felt), the Dom side of Trott (or indeed, either side of his orientation). It’s confusing and soothing and actually really fucking _good_. Something flutters in his stomach. He feels a sudden soaring wave of affection and gratitude. 

 

Gradually, more sensations return to him. His knees ache. His lip is stinging. His shirt is rucked up uncomfortably. There’s grit stuck to the side of his face. He shifts one of his arms experimentally. Faintly, he becomes aware of the music from the house behind him still booming out. 

 

“That’s it, Smith,” Trott’s voice says gently, and Smith reaches blindly out for him. Trott grabs his hand and squeezes it firmly.

 

He opens his eyes cautiously. The scene no longer seems overwhelmingly bright. Trott is still beside him, still looking worried. Smith rolls clumsily on to his back, straightening his legs out of the awkward position they’d fallen in, and takes another deep, trembling breath. The sky above is cloudy and dark. Gradually, he peels himself off the ground with an effort and sits up as best as he can. He still feels groggy. Trott steadies him. Smith’s eyes are drawn to the shape of what must be Danny, lying half-curled over in a ball on the ground. He’s moving slightly, but not much. The huddle of smokers have gathered around and are muttering to each other, looking over worriedly at him and Trott. 

 

“You all right?” Trott asks, dragging Smith’s eyes back to him. He’s rubbing Smith’s arm slightly with his free hand.

 

“Yeah,” Smith says. His voice sounds gravelly, and he coughs slightly to clear it. He feels vaguely sick. “What happened?”

 

Before Trott can answer, he hears another voice from the kitchen, urgent and full of anxiety. “Where is he? Was Trott with him? Someone said…”

 

Smith’s head darts up immediately to trace the sound. Ross. Fuck. _Fuck_.

 

Ross emerges abruptly, backlit from the light of the house. He looks agitated, and as soon as he sees the cluster of people on the patio, his eyes widen, but he stumbles quickly to Smith’s side at once. Up close, his blue eyes are worried too, even fearful. He’s nicely dressed, but kneels on the dirty patio beside Smith without hesitation. He’s warm, and he smells of cologne. 

 

“Smith? Are you OK? What the fuck happened? What…?”

 

Guilty nausea surges in the back of Smith’s throat. “’Gonna be sick,” he manages, before he lurches to the side and vomits on to the grass. The onlookers give various “ughs” of disgust and sympathy. 

 

“Why don’t you lot fuck off, eh?” Trott says angrily. Smith would never normally call Trott intimidating, but there’s an undeniable fire in his eyes and voice, and the smokers quickly stub out their cigarettes and shuffle off. Smith thinks he sees one of them haul Danny to his feet out of the corner of his eye, but he’s too busy drooling saliva and whisky from his mouth and nose to concentrate. He spits on to the grass, coughs weakly a few times. He feels a bit better now, but his legs are still shaking like he’s run a fucking marathon. He’s glad he’s still sitting down.

 

Ross presses a tissue into his hand, and Smith murmurs his thanks as he wipes his face. A girl comes over and passes a glass of water to Trott. They exchange a few words, and then she goes back into the house. All the while, Ross rubs soothing circles into his back, and Smith feels entirely unworthy of them. 

 

“Here you go,” Trott says, passing him the water. Smith rinses his mouth, spits again, and then takes a grateful mouthful.

 

“What happened?” Ross repeats. 

 

“Some cunt of a Dom just forced him under,” Trott says quietly. His voice sounds like it’s almost vibrating with barely restrained fury. “I’m not sure he can talk just yet.”

 

“Can talk,” Smith manages stubbornly, and then has to pause and cover his mouth with the back of his hand to fight back another wave of nausea. 

 

As he recovers, he hears Ross say, “The guy on the floor? Wait until I get my fucking hands on him.”

 

“No need for that,” Trott says, quiet but firm. 

 

“Did you…?”

 

“Let’s just say I’m a black belt in karate, and I wasn’t overly thinking about the fucking respect and self-control bits,” Trott says grimly. 

 

“Fucking good,” Ross says venomously. “Smith? You OK, mate?”

 

Smith manages a nod, but his head still feels a bit like it’s full of lead weights. 

 

“I brought him up out of it,” Trott says, and his voice is anxious again now. “But I don’t know how well I did, I’m out of practice.”

 

“Smith,” Ross murmurs gently, and he leans a little closer. “Can I…?”

 

He reaches slowly to touch Smith’s face, and Smith involuntarily flinches back so violently that a spasm of pain goes through his neck. Ross backs off immediately, hands raised defensively,  looking stricken, and Smith feels the weight of Trott’s worried stare.

 

“Sorry,” Smith gasps. “I… don’t… Fuck, I feel sick again.” He leans over and gags a little, but nothing more comes up. 

 

“Fuck, Smith, I’m so sorry,” Ross says quietly. He looks appalled with himself, running a hair through his hair.

 

“S’not your fault,” Smith manages. “It’s just, I can’t right now… Don’t do any… Dom things…” The very thought of it sends a rolling wave of dread through him, and he shudders. The memory of Danny’s hand yanking his hair, trying to force him to his knees, invading his mind with commands, feels like it’s replaying in an uncontrollable, terrifying loop in his brain. The only reason he can stand to be anywhere near Ross right now is that he hides his Dom status so well, but that single gesture had shocked his system into instinctive panic.

 

“I won’t, I swear.” Ross inches a little bit closer, while looking ready to get up and leave if Smith wants, but Smith nods jerkily and beckons him closer. He keeps his eyes fixed on Ross’s face, so he can focus on the fact that it’s _him_ , and he’s not a threat. He grabs for Ross’s arm, feeling the soft material of his shirt and the warm skin beneath. This is Ross, he’s safe. He exhales slowly again.

 

“Smith,” Trott says, very quietly. “Do you want to call the police? They’ll be able to help.”

 

Smith shakes his head vehemently, ducking his eyes down to the ground again. “No. No, please, no.” He feels even sicker at the thought of it. He can’t, not least because he’ll have to own up to the flirting in the kitchen, and now that thought makes him feel so awful he has to shove it away to the back of his mind to avoid throwing up again immediately. He can’t bring his head up to meet Ross’s eyes again. 

 

“OK, if you’re sure, it’s your decision,” Trott says carefully. “But if you change your mind, you just need to let us know, OK?”

 

“OK,” he mumbles.

 

“If you’re sure, then I think now we need to get you home,” Trott says, and Smith leans a little into his warm, comforting presence without fully realising what he’s doing until his forehead brushes Trott’s chest. Trott wraps an arm around him and rubs his back. “OK? Do you think you can walk?”

 

“Maybe,” Smith says, his voice a little muffled. “Don’t think I’m hurt. Apart from my lip and my knees.”

 

“OK,” Trott says gently. “D’you want Ross to come?”

 

Smith nods decisively, sitting up again. His teeth are beginning to chatter from the cold. “Y-yeah. Ross? You don’t have to.”

 

“Of course I will, mate,” Ross says, and he sounds so distressed, and so genuine, that Smith’s heart breaks. He reaches out for Ross’s hand and grabs it clumsily, before shuffling forward and dragging him into a graceless hug. Ross hesitates a moment before hugging him back, warm, strong arms tight around him. Smith feels like he could fall asleep right here.

 

“Come on,” Ross says in his ear. “Up you get.”

 

Together, Trott and Ross haul him to his feet. He’s a bit wobbly, but he can stand. Bit by bit, more awareness is coming back to him. He brushes his hair out of his eyes, and checks his jeans and top for vomit (mercifully they seem to have escaped). Trott is supporting his left side, Ross his right. He’s not resting much of his weight on them, but it’s good to have the support, because he still feels dizzy. The nausea is passing now, but when they turn towards the kitchen door, Smith completely freezes up.

 

“Smith?” Trott says from beside him.

 

“I can’t,” Smith blurts. He feels stupid and weak and pathetic, but the thought of going back into that room, the bright light, maybe even seeing the glass of whisky he left on the worktop, makes him feel faint and queasy and dizzy. “Please. Don’t wanna go in there.”

 

“OK,” Trott says soothingly. “We don’t have to. But one of us is going to have to go and get Duncan and get a key for the side gate, OK?”

 

“OK.”

 

“Who do you want to stay with you?”

 

Smith freezes again, with indecision this time. He doesn’t want to pick, doesn’t want either of them to leave him.

 

“I can go,” Ross says quietly. “If that’s OK?”

 

“OK,” Smith says, and though he wobbles a bit when Ross lets go of him, he can stand all right just with Trott. He lifts one of his feet up off the ground cautiously, bending one of his knees slightly to see if he can shake the ache from it. He doesn’t let his eyes travel to the interior of the kitchen, instead staring first at his shoes, and then at the few blades of grass peeking out at the edges of the paving stones, and then at a broken snail shell a few feet away. 

 

“Here we go,” he hears a less familiar voice say after a moment, and Duncan emerges with Ross. They shuffle over as a group to the side gate, and Duncan unlocks it for them.

 

“Smith, Trott, what…?” Duncan asks enquiringly. Smith sees Trott and Ross share a glance, and then Trott gently murmurs an apology and slips out from under Smith’s arm, leaving Ross supporting him this time. 

 

Ross and Smith limp out through the gate, as Smith vaguely hears snippets of the conversation behind them. Then again, it’s less a conversation, and more a muttered rant from Trott. He catches key phrases like “your fucking housemate” and “blatantly abusing a vulnerable Sub” and “if you fucking say a word” and “predatory rapist” and “if he even thinks about dragging his disgusting arse to the police” and “don’t let me ever fucking see that prick again.”

 

He and Ross reach the road. Smith’s dragging his feet, and the asphalt feels rough and uneven beneath them. The streetlight above them paints Ross’s face in broad strokes of muted orange and shadowy grey, and Smith ducks his head to avoid his eyes. They only wait a few moments until Trott jogs up behind them and slides under Smith’s left arm again, steadying him.

 

“Sorry about that,” Trott says, a little out-of-breath. “Now, Smith, where do you want to go? Yours and mine are both only about ten minutes walk from here. We’ll stay with you either way. But if we go to yours, we’ll have to deal with the stairs.” 

 

Smith struggles to focus on the question. “Yours?” he mumbles. Despite Trott’s words, he can’t let go of the fear that he’s going to be left alone in his dark room, to his gnawing guilt and the cold, terrifying memory of Danny’s face looming in front of him. 

 

“OK sunshine,” Trott says encouragingly. “Come on then. Let’s go home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the comments and kudos CONTINUE TO MAKE MY DAY, thanks so much guys! Hope this was a bit of a break from the stress of the last chapter, fluff is on its way. I think I have one more reasonably prompt update left in me, and then I'll have to stop and think and write a bit more! Even comments that are just flailing are worth their weight (?!) in gold to me ;) People say they're excited to read, and when updating I'm just so excited for you to read too haha. Follow me on tumblr (umbrellaofshame) if you want to chat xxx


	3. Chapter 3

The walk back is cold and difficult. Smith is still swaying slightly. His attention narrows to just numbly putting one foot in front of the other. 

 

One. Two. One. Two. One. Two.

 

His thoughts are swirling round and round in a confused loop, but he doesn’t want to focus on one particularly, because the ramifications of what just happened are just too much to deal with right now. When his teeth start chattering badly, Ross gives him his jacket without a word and won’t accept it back. He feels absolutely exhausted by the time they reach Trott’s, and by the way the others are walking, he knows he’s been leaning more and more of his weight on them. Trott ducks out from under his arm again to unlock his door and usher the two of them in. Smith vaguely realises that it’s probably not even midnight yet - he almost has to stifle a laugh at the idea of coming home from a house party this early.

 

The three of them bundle into Trott’s room. Smith just wants to sit down, and preferably go to sleep forever. Trott steers him towards the bed. He realises that one his arms is still around Ross but he can’t be bothered to move it. His legs are tingling from the exertion. He slumps forward and noses into Ross’s neck. He feels like he’s a small child who’s been half-carried home by his parents. The thought makes him want to laugh again, but he’s too tired.

 

“Smith. Smith.” Trott is shaking his shoulder slightly. “Wake up, mate. How are you feeling?”

 

“Knackered,” Smith grunts.

 

“OK,” Trott says sympathetically. “We’re going to get a bed sorted for you, OK? Well, you can have my bed, and Ross and I can be on the floor. Do you want…?”

 

“No,” Smith says quickly. “Want to stay with you.”

 

“It’s OK, we’re going to be in the same room.”

 

“No.” Smith’s imagination weaves a picture of him lying alone in his bed, unable to stop _thinking_ for hours. The knowledge that Trott and Ross will be nearby does not assuage his fears - even a few feet will be too far to reach out to them, he’ll be disturbing them, he’ll be alone. “Can we stay together?”

 

Trott and Ross exchange looks. “We might be able to all fit on the floor?” Ross suggests, with a flicker of a smile. 

 

“Would be easier if you two weren’t fucking giants,” Trott complains.

 

“Could we?” Smith says quietly. His brain is too foggy to think through whether this is a really stupid idea. Right now he just wants to sleep, and he wants the both of them with him.

 

“If that’s what you want,” Ross says gently, rubbing his shoulder, and Smith nods and leans back into him again.

 

“Wait, one more thing, Smith,” Trott interjects.

 

“Uh?”

 

Trott’s face is pained. “I don’t know if you want to have a shower before bed… it might make you feel better. But… shit… I don’t know how to say this… Are you sure about not going to the police? Is there any possibility that there’s any kind of… evidence?”

 

It takes a moment for Smith to process that. He can feel the anxious tension in Ross’s body beside him. He shakes his head. “No. He didn’t… He didn’t do anything like that. At least I don’t think so… I don’t remember.”

 

Trott runs a shaking hand over his face, muttering “fuck” under his breath, and suddenly Smith remembers calling his name. 

 

“No, it can’t have been long… He’d only just started, and I yelled for you…? Did you hear me?”

 

Trott’s face is very tense. “Yeah. I came back into the kitchen because I felt bad for pissing you off. Then I thought I heard your voice, and I went back into the lounge for a moment, looking for you, but I must have made it outside pretty quickly.”

 

“Then he didn’t have time to… do anything else,” Smith says, feeling the only half-realised terror that he’d had no idea how long Danny had had him out there mercifully slip away. He actually hears Trott and Ross’s identical sighs of relief. 

 

“OK, do you want a shower then?” Trott asks. “You’ve got dirt on your face, and your lip’s bleeding.”

 

Smith touches his lip stupidly and brings his finger away with the gritty residue of dark, dried blood. He licks the spot reflexively, and it stings. “OK,” he says. It’ll be nice to try and rinse away the memories of Danny’s hands grabbing at him. “You two won’t… you won’t leave, will you?”

 

“No,” Ross says firmly, squeezing his shoulder. “We’ll be just outside. Call if you need anything.”

 

“Here, sorry, I haven’t got any fresh towels,” Trott says, tossing him one. Smith even manages to snort that he doesn’t think that matters and then heads for the bathroom. Thank fuck Trott has an ensuite too. 

 

Once in there, he feels oddly wobbly again, so he sits down to piss, and then peels off his clothes one by one, trying to keep his legs from shaking. He has a firm grip on the shower pole when he levers himself in, determined not to slip. He plants his feet a decent distance apart and locks his knees to prevent the shuddering. He has to shove the shower head further up the pole so he can fit his head underneath it (why is Trott so damn short?). The water is freezing when he first puts it on, the shock of it making him jerk back for a moment, but it warms up quickly. He stands there with the water beating down on his head, trickling down the longer strands of hair at the front of his head and pouring in warm rivulets down his face and body. Then he quickly rinses his face and hair, scrubbing the mud off the side of his cheek with his hand, and the blood from his lip (the cut must reopen a little, because he can taste blood, but at least it’s clean now). His knees too, are slightly grazed and one of them is dirty (fuck, he must have torn a hole in his good jeans). At least the warm water banishes his chattering teeth. It’s not until he steps out on to the bath mat (keeping a hand on the door of the shower cubicle for support) and grabs Trott’s towel that he realises that he hasn’t got any pyjamas, but he’s sure Trott will be able to find him something. 

 

He dries his face and hair a little before wrapping the towel around himself, and goes to open the bathroom door. It’s not as if Trott and Ross haven’t both seen him in more compromising positions before. But when he tries the door, it only opens a few inches before getting stuck.

 

“Sorry, Smith, gimme a sec,” Trott says, and then he shifts some cushions out of the way and helps Smith open the door wide enough to slip through.

 

Trott’s floor has been covered with what looks like every even remotely bedding-like item he possesses. Ross is standing back trying to shove Trott’s desk chair out of the way, looking impressed and proud. Trott looks vaguely concerned.

 

“We’ve taken the mattress off the bed and put that down sideways for our head end,” Trott explains. “Obviously it’s not going to be long enough for us that way, so we got those shitty cushion things my aunt gave me that have been under my bed the whole year, and my old camping mat for the other end. The mattress is thin as hell anyway, so there’s not much difference. For bedding we’ve got my duvet, an unzipped sleeping bag, and an extra blanket.”

 

“It looks good,” Smith says honestly. True, Trott’s room looks half-destroyed, and they’ve had to pile up all his non-bedding possessions on the bare bed slats to make room on the floor, but it looks comfortable and sleepable-on, and that’s his main priority right now. “Can I borrow some PJs?”

 

Trott rolls his eyes jokingly, and throws him a pair of underpants and a t-shirt from one of the drawers he can still get open without getting it stuck on the ‘bed’. He then groans as Smith shamelessly drops his towel immediately, though Ross snorts with laughter.

 

“Nothing you haven’t seen before.” Smith attempts a jovial tone as he pulls on the pants, but it’s slightly undermined by the fact that he nearly wobbles over, only just grabbing the wall for support in time. Both Trott and Ross freeze mid-reaction towards him. “It’s OK, I’m OK.”

 

He puts on the t-shirt - it must be enormous on Trott, because it fits him fairly well. 

 

“Right then, let’s get you installed now you’re a least a _bit_ more decent,” Trott says lightly. “Guessing you’re going in the middle?”

 

Smith nods, and begins clambering into the nest of bedding as best he can. He wriggles into place, and stretches his legs out - they stick off the end of the makeshift bed, but he doesn’t care. The others have given him the duvet, because they’re the best. “Can I use the bathroom, Trott?” Ross asks. 

 

“Yeah sure. Do you want the towel that Smith’s contaminated?” (Smith snorts weakly into a pillow).

 

“No thanks, I showered earlier.”

 

Ross gives Smith a reassuring smile as he squeezes his way into the bathroom. Smith yawns as Trott fiddles with a lamp behind him, which he switches on, and then pads carefully over the ‘bed’ to switch off the main light. 

 

“Thanks,” Smith murmurs sleepily.

 

“It’s OK, sunshine.” Trott comes to kneel on Smith’s left side. “Are you feeling OK?”

 

“Yeah, not too bad. Really tired.”

 

“Yeah, that’s normal, you’ll still be recovering from being under so deep.” Trott reaches forward to brush a bit of Smith’s wet hair out of his face. “Hopefully being with Ross will help a bit.”

 

“And you,” Smith murmurs. Trott looks surprised and grateful, and touches his shoulder wordlessly.

 

“Thanks,” Smith earnestly, his voice a little hoarse. “You saved me. Seriously. Twice. You got him… away, and you brought me up, out of it. I know you don’t do aspect stuff around me, so that… that means a lot.”

 

Trott smiles weakly, and grips his shoulder a little more tightly. “Smith, you’re my best mate, what do you think I’m here for?”

 

“I know, but really… thanks.”

 

“No problem,” Trott says gently. Smith thinks that he might just sense a wetness about Trott’s brown eyes, but figures that now really isn’t the time to take the piss. 

 

Behind Trott, the bathroom door creaks open a little. 

 

“Ross, can you grab a piece of toilet paper for Smith’s lip?” Trott asks. 

 

“Why, has he been talking shit again?” Ross quips, and Smith laughs despite himself.

 

“No,” Trott says exasperatedly. “It’s bleeding.”

 

“Fine, fine, I’m getting it…” 

 

Ross, now in just his shirt and pants, emerges from the bathroom and steps deftly around the two of them to reach Smith’s right side, passing Trott the piece of tissue. Trott dabs at Smith’s lip daintily until Smith tells him to piss off and does it himself. 

 

“Right, I’ll go in the shower quickly then,” Trott says. Smith nods in tired assent, but as his eyes follow him from the room, he realises for the first time that Trott’s knuckles look red and a little bruised. He tries to swallow away the sudden lump of fear in his throat.

 

But a moment later, Ross slides into the bed on his right hand side, and Smith rolls over to face him, pushing his fear aside and seeking reassurance. Ross wriggles under the blue blanket and then turns over as well, reaching out his arm immediately for Smith to fit underneath. Smith obliges with a grin, curling in close to the warmth of Ross’s body. He tries to ignore the stab of guilt at the thought of earlier. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it._

 

Ross holds him close, gives him what feels like a kiss on his head. “You all right?”

 

Smith nods, safe in the dark warm space within Ross’s embrace.

 

“Sorry about earlier,” Ross says quietly. “When I tried to be… Dom with you, and freaked you out. I should have realised…”

 

“Not your fault,” Smith mumbles into his shirt. He tries not to think, _it’s my fault for leading him on._

 

“OK.” Ross rubs his back again. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I was… fucking terrified for you. And, well, really fucking angry.” He sighs slightly. “God, you probably feel really really shitty now, but we’ll work through it in the morning, yeah? Trott and I will be here, if you need us.”

 

“OK,” Smith says.

 

He feels like he’s just drifting off to sleep when Trott comes out of the bathroom, and he rolls over on to his back because he doesn’t want to miss him. Trott gives him an apologetic smile, already in his pyjamas, towelling his hair. “Sorry. I’ll be there in a moment. Ross, you don’t need to wake up for anything in the morning, do you?”

 

“No,” Ross says, rearranging his pillow. “Exams are over, I’m good.” 

 

“Great, we can have a lie-in.” Trott clicks off the bathroom light and gets into bed on Smith’s other side. Smith smiles dopily at the sight of him struggling a bit with the zipper on the sleeping bag. Once he’s settled, he too turns towards Smith, though he looks serious.

 

“Smith, is there anything else you need? More water? Any stuff aspect-wise? You don’t need to be embarrassed, anything Ross and I can do.” Ross “hmmm”s in agreement behind Smith. 

 

“Not right now,” Smith says. “I just wanna sleep. You two are going to stay here, right?”

 

“Right,” Trott says. “And if you feel bad in the night, for whatever reason, just wake us up.” 

 

“OK,” Smith says. He feels strongly that the dread and terror is going to set in badly tomorrow, but now he feels about as warm and safe and content as he thinks is possible right now. He wants to say something really terribly corny, like he loves the two of them, but he hasn’t quite got to that level of honesty. 

 

“So, who’s being the little spoon?” Ross says jokingly, and Smith manages a chuckle. It should feel really weird, camping on the floor like this, especially with Trott too, but it really doesn’t, somehow. It’s cramped and cosy and comforting. It feels right.

 

“Trout, obviously.”

 

“Fuck off,” Trott says lightly. “And I want to enforce a really strong house rule. No fucking… fucking in the bed.”

 

“It’s not really a bed,” Smith points out, attempting his lascivious eyebrow-wiggle.

 

“Yeah, because we’ve ruined my actual bed to make it,” Trott complains. “Seriously. If I wake up and there’s _any_ weird stains on my duvet, you two are going to be in big trouble.”

 

“Sounds like a challenge,” Ross says quietly in his ear, and Smith laughs again. His eyelids feel very heavy, and he stifles a massive yawn. He’s thinking vaguely that he’d actually quite like to be the little spoon, but he can’t quite articulate it. 

 

“Come on, you should sleep,” Trott says reprovingly. “Can I switch off the lamp?”

 

Smith murmurs his agreement, and a moment later the room is completely dark. It disorients him for a moment, and he grabs at Trott’s hand for reassurance, and he feels less like a prat when Trott squeezes it back. “You OK?”

 

“Yeah.” Smith turns his head, and reaches out for Ross too. Ross complains as he catches him in the face first time, but he quickly finds his hand too and lightly holds it. In the darkness, on the strange non-bed, he has a vague vision of being lost at sea, with only Trott and Ross keeping him afloat.

 

Ross rolls on to his side, and Smith does the same, so they’re both facing Trott, though it’s too dark to see him now. Ross touches him on the shoulder. “Is this OK?” he asks, very quietly, making to loop his arms around Smith from behind. 

 

“Yeah, please,” Smith mumbles, and Ross curls his arms protectively around him.

 

Smith’s other hand is still holding Trott’s, whose dark eyes he can make out after a few moments of letting his eyes adjust. He flashes Smith a quick, warm smile, and squeezes his hand again. 

 

“Come closer,” Smith murmurs, pulling on his hand a little. He has a strong feeling that he wants them both near to him.

 

Trott gives a small, mock-exasperated sigh, and then shuffles a little closer so he can drape a careful arm over Smith as well. Smith focuses on the affectionate points of contact ( _they’re here, nothing’s going to happen, it’s OK_ ) instead of the dread still gnawing at the pit of his stomach, and once he matches his breathing to the others’ and relaxes into the strange three-way embrace, he falls asleep. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the pure fluff ;) You've given such fantastic feedback and comments so far, guys, thank you so much as always!! (and sorry my chapter end notes seem to be fucked up, I don't know what happened!). Next chapter is roughly drafted but I haven't really sorted out where I'm going with this story yet, so IDEAS WELCOME!! I do want to move in a Hatsome direction, but how far I'll go with that I'm not sure yet, it's going to be more of a slow-burn situation. Might make a tumblr post with my current ideas if anyone doesn't want to spoilered! Thank you again for reading xxx


	4. Chapter 4

 

Smith doesn’t sleep well, unsurprisingly.

 

The first time he wakes, it is suddenly, from an unsettling dream, though he can’t quite remember its content. For a moment, his heart is hammering and he feels suffocated and alone in the darkness, but then he hears Trott give a little snuffling breath, and feels Ross’s fingers twitch slightly at his collarbone, and he manages to calm his breathing and fall asleep again. 

 

The second time, it’s worse. He’s disorientated by the unfamiliar setting, and when he remembers and realises while he’s here, his stomach clenches. Oh God. Oh God, he’s fucked up so badly. 

 

His thoughts immediately start whirring again, and he tries to grope for his phone to check the time before remembering it’s probably still in his jeans pocket in a heap on the bathroom floor. He spots Ross’s though, and taps it clumsily. 5.30. Jesus Christ.

 

He turns over and closes his eyes again, but now he feels suddenly, horribly awake, and can’t stop thinking. How’s he going to tell Ross about what happened with Danny? Is it going to wreck everything between them? How could he have been such an idiot? And fuck, even if he manages to keep it quiet, or Ross is OK with it (why would he be OK with it? Smith wouldn’t be OK with it), then the idea of doing any aspect stuff right now just makes him feel sick. He can feel the suffocating darkness closing about his throat like a vice, Danny’s hands grabbing at him. Ross isn’t going to want a Sub who can’t stand the idea of being put under, fuck, what kind of Dom is? Ross has been too fucking patient with him as it is, he can’t be expected to be a saint. 

 

Smith feels himself tear up a little despite himself, and puts one hand to his face shakily, pulling at the skin around his eyes.

 

Fuck. Is this it? Has he cocked everything, _everything,_ up with one night’s stupidity? Everyone in the fucking year is going to know he’s a Sub. He’s going to get all the comments, all the shit-talking, all the patronising glances, the lack of respect. He’s tried so fucking hard for so long to shed all that crap, and now it’s all going to come crashing down around his ears. 

 

What about Trott? He’d never done any aspect stuff with Smith, thought it was a bad idea. And now he’s had to break that boundary for Smith, because that’s what Smith does - he pushes and pushes until people break, and then they resent him for it. Is Trott going to resent him for what happened? Why has he never done aspect stuff with Smith before, even when he’d _begged_? Is it because Smith being a Sub disgusts him somehow? Had he known, sensed somehow, that Smith would get too attached, too needy, push the limits of their friendship until it snapped around them? Had he realised that sometimes his begging hadn’t just been for _someone, anyone_ , sometimes it had been for Trott personally? Had he realised that tonight? Has he messed that up too?

 

He stifles a sob.

 

“Smith, you all right?”

 

Ross’s voice is very quiet in the darkness next to him. Smith doesn’t want to meet his eyes, but he shakes his head silently. 

 

“Can I help?” It’s barely more than a whisper.

 

Smith takes a deep shuddering breath, wipes his eyes quickly with one finger, blinking them open to stare at the dark ceiling, and then exhales again. “I… I’ve fucked up everything,” he croaks, his teeth gritted. One tear slips down his cheek and past his ear despite his best efforts. 

 

“No you haven’t. We can sort this out in the morning. You, me, and Trotty.”

 

Smith coughs out a laugh. “Not sure you’ll feel that way later.”

 

“D’you reckon you can get back to sleep?”

 

Smith shrugs, and glances down to where Ross is waiting. He can just make out his sleepy, worried face. He doesn’t look angry, or impatient. He’s frowning, and reaching out a hand to Smith.

 

“Come here, you silly twat,” Ross whispers, and ushers him back in close. Smith shuffles down the bed towards him, and Ross puts an arm around him. Smith clenches his eyes shut, regulates his shaking breaths, and manages to drift off again before morning. 

 

 

***

 

And when he next wakes, the light is pouring in through Trott’s shitty blinds, and Trott is stretching and yawning beside him. By the noise from the bathroom and the empty space on Smith’s right, Ross is in the shower. 

 

“You OK, Smith?”

 

Smith groans. He feels like he aches, inside and out. “Bit of a fucking stupid question.” 

 

Trott, to his credit, laughs. “Yeah, sorry, mate. Do you need anything?”

 

“Breakfast?”

 

“Cheeky bugger,” Trott says, rolling his eyes. “You’re eating me out of house and home.” He eyes Smith, a little suspiciously. “Seriously though, do you need anything?”

 

Smith shrugs. He still feels a bit awful, but right now there’s not much that can be done about any of his worries - they’re just lingering in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know what he’s going to tell Ross (if anything), he doesn’t know how he’s going to feel about Subbing any time soon, and for all he knows the truth about his status is common knowledge around the year by now. But there’s not much Trott can do about any of that.

 

“What do you want to do today?” Trott asks, watching him closely. “I hate it to say it, but it’s not too late to go to the police…?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“All right. I mean, are you going to stay here, or go back to yours?” 

 

Smith shrugs again, rubs at his eyes, tugs at his hair absently. “Can I stay? We could just sit around and play games?”

 

“Sounds good to me.” Trott lowers his voice. “You OK with Ross staying?”

 

“Yeah?” Smith says, frowning. “Why do you ask?”

 

Trott shrugs. “Was checking. He is a Dom, might be a bit much.” His voice is casual, but he still seems to be watching for Smith’s reaction carefully.

 

“Nah, it’s good.” Smith stretches. At least it relieves the stiffness in his muscles a little. “Weird question, but could you message Duncan or something? I want to know whether the whole year knows yet. Y’know, so there’s some notice before I’m a laughing stock.”

 

Trott reaches for his phone, but he glares at Smith reprovingly as he unlocks it. “You won’t be a laughing stock, Smith. You’re a Sub, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

Smith rolls his eyes, but he feels grateful to Trott all the same. “We’ve been through this before. People are dicks, it’s the way it is.”

 

The shower stops in the bathroom, and Ross emerges a few moments later, half-wrapped in Trott’s towel. The way the droplets cling to the dark hair on his chest and stomach is very distracting. “Morning, Smith. How are you doing?”

 

“Not too bad. Been better,” Smith says, trying not to ogle his torso too obviously.

 

“Hmmmm.” Ross and Trott exchange glances, and Smith narrows his eyes at them. 

 

“Come on. Trotty’s offering breakfast and a day of video games - you in, Ross?”

 

“As soon as we’ve sorted out my fucking bed,” Trott points out, pointing threatening at both of them.

 

***

 

There’s no reply from Duncan. 

 

Trott only has two controllers, so they play Mortal Kombat X. Smith is so torn between frustration, fury, and laughter that the time seems to pass very quickly. The three of them seem to gel and bounce off each other’s banter effortlessly. Their approaches are so different - Trott seems to actually have a strategy, poor Ross just mashes the same buttons over and over again to get the one move he knows, and Smith just fights to take advantage of the best character he can. Before they know it, it’s long past noon, and Ross’s stomach is audibly rumbling.

 

“I might go back to mine,” Ross says regretfully, as his Kotal Kahn is shredded on-screen by Trott’s D’vorah. 

 

“Sure? You’re welcome to stay longer,” Trott offers, setting his controller down with a sigh of triumph. “I’ll kick your arse again.”

 

“Nah, my housemates will be reporting me missing soon,” Ross says ruefully. “And my phone’s out of charge. But I’ll text you guys, we should meet up later or something, yeah?”

 

“Bring a controller next time,” Smith suggests, snatching Ross’s off him and flicking back to examine the character selection screen. 

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Ross stands and grabs his very rumpled jacket, and Smith gets up reluctantly and throws his phone to him. 

 

They have a quick, slightly awkward hug, but when Ross pulls back, his face is serious. He’s very close to Smith, scanning his face worriedly. “Seriously, text me later. I want to know you’re OK, yeah?”

 

Smith nods, they separate, Trott says his goodbyes too, and then Ross is gone. Smith goes back to the character selection screen, but Trott lingers in the doorway. “Do you want lunch, Smith?”

 

“Yeah, whatever.”

 

Trott rolls his eyes, but comes back from the kitchen a few minutes later with two plates of beans on toast. “Here you go, you ungrateful twat.”

 

Smith beams and sets the controller down. “Thanks, Trotty.”

 

They dig in, but now they’re alone, Smith begins wondering whether he should say something about last night. Earlier when they were just playing, he almost forgot about it, but now it’s just the two of them in the silence, it really feels like it’s the elephant in the room. If he doesn’t do it now, the whole ordeal will just drag on for longer and longer, and then he’ll really regret not having said something earlier. And he really needs to ask Trott’s advice. Fuck it.

 

“I need to tell you something,” he says impulsively, before he loses his nerve.

 

“O… kay,” Trott says, sounding a little confused, his mouth half-full of toast. “Can’t it wait until after lunch?”

 

“Not really. Well, yeah… but…” Smith stabs a baked bean angrily. 

 

“What is it?” Trott says, frowning. Smith’s tone is clearly serious enough to get his attention.

 

“Last night… fucking hell…” Smith covers his face, yanks on his hair. He suddenly feels hot with agitation. His words feel like they’re hovering before him, as yet unsaid. In this brief second, there’s still time to snatch them back.

 

“You don’t have to…”

 

“I started it. With Danny,” Smith blurts, face still covered, before Trott can stop him. 

 

“What?” Smith glances up in time to see a square of soggy toast falls off Trott’s fork and back on to his plate with a comical/disgusting splat. “Smith, if you’re trying to…” Trott’s face looks shocked, upset, confused, worried.

 

“Fuck, I’m not trying to excuse what he did,” Smith says in a flurry, before Trott starts getting the wrong idea. The guilt at putting that expression on Trott’s face is wrenching at his guts. “I’m just saying, I started it. I kissed him. He wasn’t forcing me for that bit, and I knew what I was doing, and I did it anyway.”

 

The silence, save for the background music of Mortal Kombat X, is startling. Trott sighs and sets his fork down. “Fuck, Smith, I don’t know what to say.”

 

“That I’m a fucking gaping arsehole who might just have fucked up everything?” Smith says, with a very strained grin.

 

Trott gives an awkward half-laugh; he’s clearly not sure how serious Smith is being. He sounds tired. He too covers his face. “Shit. You need to tell Ross. Unless you said something last night?”

 

“No I didn’t… And I know I do,” Smith says quietly. 

 

“He won’t be angry - it was a mistake, you’re sorry,” Trott suggests soothingly.

 

“You sure about that?” Smith says tightly. “He’d have a right to be.”

 

“He’s not that kind of guy.”

 

“I barely know him.”

 

“That’s not true. You saw him last night - he was as ready as I was to beat that prick to a pulp. But he was quiet and gentle with you, because he knew how spooked you were.”

 

“Suppose,” Smith says, scraping at his beans despondently, sticking the last forkful in his mouth.

 

“Come on Smith, don’t be a twat about this.” Trott’s face is intense, but genuine. His brown eyes demand Smith’s attention. “You know you have to speak to him. I know you talk like he’s just a fling, but the guy’s important to you, any idiot can see that. You need to be honest.”

 

Smith snorts. “Knew you’d say that.”

 

“Yes, well, _actually_ ,” Trott says in his nerd voice. “I think you’ll find that, scientifically, am I right 98.3% of the time.” He pulls a face and shovels in the last piece of toast.

 

Smith snorts with laughter despite himself. Trott nudges him. “Seriously. Call him later, get him to come round or something, tell him in person.”

 

Smith reluctantly nods in agreement, and is about to ask how to phrase that when Trott’s phone buzzes, and he leans over to grab it. “Duncan,” he says shortly, and Smith snaps into new alertness.

 

“What does he say?”

 

“Gimme a sec’,” Trott says, scrolling through what looks like a really long message. At one point he gives a half-smile, which Smith takes to be a good sign.

 

“Come on, don’t keep me in suspense.”

 

“Sorry, right. Er, the gist is that Danny came down this morning looking like death warmed up, but they don’t think he’s broken any bones. All the house have been giving him the serious cold shoulder. Word got around that he’d attacked a Sub, so obviously people are pretty pissed. One of the girls has already said that she doesn’t want to share a house again next year.”

 

“Do they know it was me?” Smith says shortly.

 

“No. Duncan hinted that it was a friend of a friend, not on the course, and a girl. Nobody’s been talking enough to Danny for him to correct them, and no one really saw what happened outside. The smokers were too high to tell what was going on, apparently, and actually one of them said he saw you hit Danny, so if anything you’re getting the credit, typical.”

 

Smith laughs with relief. “What can I say, Trotty, clearly I look like more of a badass than you do.”

 

Trott gives him the finger. “Thanks a lot. Just let me know when you want a fair fight, and I’ll kick your arse.”

 

“Yeah right.” He aggressively shoulder-barges Trott so hard he nearly topples over, flailing to put the hand with his phone in out to stop himself. 

 

“Hey, fuck off!”

 

Smith chuckles again, feeling almost light-hearted now. But then, of course, another worrying thought strikes him. “Hey, Trott, can I ask something else?”

 

Trott glares at him, putting his phone down and theatrically rubbing his shoulder. “What?”

 

“You and me… we’re OK, right?”

 

Trott raises an eyebrow comically. “What, after that shove? No, our friendship is fucking over.”

 

“No, you twat… After last night.”

 

Smith’s hand on Trott’s shoulder suddenly feels out of place, and he removes it awkwardly. Trott is looking at him in apparent confusion.

 

“What do you mean, Smith?”

 

“About… bringing me up, out of it. You always said aspect stuff between us wasn’t a good idea, and y’know, you were basically forced into it.” Smith’s voice sounds small and ashamed, and he feels like his heart is banging out of his chest waiting for Trott’s response.

 

Trott is frowning at him. “Smith…” He sighs, rubs at his stubbled chin. “Mate, I wasn’t _forced_ into anything. I saw you were in trouble, and I wanted to help you! I could have waited for Ross, but I just reacted instinctively. Did it… upset you?”

 

“No!” Smith says quickly. “No, no, I was just afraid that you might have felt… bad about it.” He picks at one of his fingernails anxiously.

 

“Listen to me, Smith,” Trott says seriously, pulling on his shoulder so they’re facing each other properly. “Look, I didn’t want to do aspect stuff with you back in school because I was scared, OK? I didn’t want to fuck it up, I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t want it to mess things up between us! And fuck, sometimes I… sometimes I really regret that.”

 

Smith pulls his head back in confusion, and, pulling a face, considers Trott’s expression more carefully. “What do you mean, you regret it?” 

 

“Well, because you did get hurt,” Trott says quietly. His jaw is set, a faint frown creasing his forehead. “Because you were fucking desperate, and I didn’t help you.”

 

“No, Trott, it wasn’t your fault…”

 

Trott flaps a hand. “I know, I know, but it wasn’t yours either, and you know what I’m like.” He shrugs, sighs. “Things were different back then, I wouldn’t have…” He trails off.

 

Smith frowns. “What do you mean, things were different?”

 

Trott shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

 

Smith pauses, tries to figure his way round that. Does Trott just mean that he wouldn’t have put Smith under, because he didn’t know what he was doing? Because he didn’t want to? Because Smith was too vulnerable to be sure what he wanted - to give consent? And when says that ‘things were different’, does that mean that those reasons have changed now? Or that the reasons against doing aspect stuff together have… gone?

 

“Trott…” he begins, but Trott has already picked up the controller.

 

“Come on, mate, I’m going to slaughter you. And don’t you dare pick fucking Quan Chi again.” 

 

Smith hesitates, but decides not to press the issue. He’s got enough shit to worry about right now as it is. “Fine. I’ll still win though, bitch.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this, guys! :) Yes for conversations! Nooo for poor Smith's worrying. Updates may get a bit sparser soon, because I've recently started my first full-time job, yikes. As always, comments, feedback and ideas for where to take this in the future are much appreciated xxx


	5. Chapter 5

Smith leaves Trott’s at about five, slightly reluctantly. He still doesn’t feel like he wants to be alone, but at least some of the terrifying, catastrophic consequences of last night don’t seem to have materialised quite yet (Trott doesn’t hate him, his secret isn’t out yet). Though he is pretty sure some of them will when he has a conversation with Ross. All the same, right now he just wants to get that over with. The uncertainty feels like it’s hanging ominously above his head. Surely  even anger or rejection can’t be worse than this.

 

Trott had given him a pep-talk before he’d gone, of course, and strictly instructed that he phone if he needed anything, particularly if things didn’t go well with Ross. Smith had always lightheartedly complained about Trott’s hugs (the height difference can make them pretty hilarious), but he’d really appreciated it this time. When they’d pulled apart, there’d been something odd, something regretful, in Trott’s eyes, but he’d brushed it off when Smith had asked. 

 

Now, walking briskly away from Trott’s accommodation block, the knot of anxiety in Smith’s stomach is certainly growing, but it’s not as debilitating as it was last night. He scuffs his shoes lazily along the ground as he walks. The late afternoon is bright, and the sun dapples through the trees, dazzling him as he walks - he tries a calming exhale. 

 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket (fuck, he needs to charge it when he gets in), unlocks it, finds Ross’s number, and then lets his finger hover over the call button. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He presses it.

 

Ross picks up after a couple of rings. “Hey, Smith, how are you doing?”

 

“I’m OK,” Smith says, and swallows. He doesn’t know how to mention A Talk, without it either sounding overly-casual, or like a crisis. “Erm, do you fancy popping round to mine for dinner? I’m just walking from Trott’s, I’m going to nip in the shop.”

 

“Yeah sure. What time? Six?”

 

“Yeah.” Smith hesitates, and then bites the bullet. “I… need to talk to you.”

 

“OK,” Ross says cautiously. “Are you all right? Like, now, or later when I come over?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine but… later.” Smith changes the subject quickly. “Erm, so, what do you want for dinner?”

 

“Don’t mind really. See if Costcutter still has that stir fry offer?”

 

“Oh, yeah, sounds good. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

 

“OK! Bye, Smith.”

 

Smith’s hand is a little sweaty as he fumbles his phone back into his pocket. Well, that’s at least some of the hard part over. Now he can’t really avoid the issue later - Ross will know something is up.

 

Oh God, what’s he going to say? Smith doesn’t know how he’s going to take it. It wasn’t like they’d had a conversation about being… exclusive, but it was more than implied, right? Will he think Smith’s just pulling the Sub card if he talks about how frustrated and abandoned he’d been feeling? Or might he even think that Smith is trying to somehow blame Ross for last night? Will he think that Smith was asking for all of it, that he deserved what happened somehow?

 

He takes a deep breath. Trott had said earlier that Smith couldn’t control how Ross thought, and he’s right, as always. All he can do is tell him the truth and keep his fingers crossed.

 

***

 

He’s just adding the stir fry sauce when Ross knocks on the door (his poor timing doesn’t extend to dinner attendance, apparently). Smith is abruptly reminded of when he was last here - spaghetti bolognese, Smith more worried about seeming too eager for Subbing than he was concerned that he wasn’t going to be able to do it at all. He feels numb and scared.

 

He tries really hard not to think about it as he lets Ross in with all the jocularity he can muster, but at the same time Smith struggles to meet his eyes. Ross seems to sense his discomfort, and silently collects plates and cutlery from Smith’s cupboard. He notices Ross has brought a bag with him. Will he want to stay over? Will he want to have sex? Will be he pissed off, disappointed? Oh God, Smith’s stomach feels like lead at the thought. He tugs at his hair nervously as he stirs the noodles one more time.

 

“Do you want to talk now?” Ross says concernedly, as soon as the two of them get into Smith’s room, Smith waving him to the desk chair again. 

 

Smith attempts a laugh as he gets comfortable on the bed. “Well, seeing as you might leave, I reckon you should probably eat your food first.”

 

“Why would I leave?” Ross asks gently. His eyes are wide and sincere. “Is this to do with what you were saying in the night? About fucking up?”

 

“Seriously, fucking eat first,” Smith says, before his voice cracks. He’s even more nervous than he was when talking to Trott, and he barely feels hungry, but they eat anyway. Ross is watching him worriedly, and the concern makes Smith feels guilty and sick all over again. If Ross is going to be angry, he wants to skip to that bit, rather than have to endure his pity.

 

Smith makes it half-way through his stir fry before it starts sticking in his throat and he puts his fork down with a clatter. “OK,” he says abruptly. Ross glances up at him, and Smith rubs his face self-consciously under his gaze. “Can I talk?”

 

“Sure,” Ross says.

 

“Last night, I was drunk,” Smith says bluntly, trying his best to keep eye contact. “Not like, wasted, but enough. And I was pissed at you for being late… I was being stupid. Insecure. I started thinking that you weren’t coming, overthought the whole thing, like we were going to break this off because I was a bad Sub or some shit… And I was so desperate to be put under that I couldn't think straight… And then I snogged Danny.”

 

Ross opens his mouth, but Smith barrels on.

 

“I was regretting it, like, as I doing it, but I was feeling really shitty, and I kinda wanted to make you jealous? I don’t know. That’s not an excuse, it’s just how it was. And then I wanted to stop, and he didn’t. And he forced me. And now…” Smith’s voice cracks a little. He clenches his fist, swallows away the tightness in his throat. “The thought of Sub stuff makes me feel sick. With you, it’s been so good, and now I just feel like I can’t… Fuck… well, it’s ruined everything.”

 

There’s a very long silence. Smith has to avert his eyes, he can’t stand it anymore. He stares fixedly at his plate, listens to the pounding of his heart, hopes that Ross doesn’t hit him, or worse, dump him.

 

The silence drags on intolerably, until Ross gives a little cough. And he just says, “Oh Smith.” He sounds shocked and hurt but still sympathetic.

 

“Please,” Smith says, his hand now so tightly clenched that it hurts. “You should be angry, I’ve fucked everything up…”

 

“No you haven’t,” Ross says quietly. He doesn’t move closer, which Smith is grateful for.

 

“I have, don’t you understand? I…”

 

“Come on, can’t I talk?” Ross says, with a gentle tease in his voice. Smith looks up disbelievingly. “Can’t get a word in edgeways sometimes.”

 

“OK.”

 

Ross sighs. “Look. Yeah, you made a mistake. But so did I.”

 

“What? How did you…?”

 

“I shouldn’t have insisted on us having a break,” Ross says sincerely. “I was worried about my work, and I should have been worried about you. If I’d organised myself better, I could have had longer study days a couple of times a week and then made time for an evening with you. But I thought it would just be easier for us not to see each other, and I was wrong.”

 

“Just because I’m a Sub, it doesn’t mean I can’t control myself,” Smith begins, a little irritably, but Ross holds up a hand to stop him.

 

“I know that. Which is why I’m not saying that you didn’t mess up. But I should have known that after going so long with being able to have the aspect stuff, having it for a while and then going cold turkey would have been really tough for you. I care about you, so I should have joined the fucking dots.”

 

Smith opens his mouth to argue, and then closes it again. 

 

“And I knew you were insecure (your words mate, don’t get pissy), and I didn’t do enough to help you change that. You’re not a bad Sub. And even if you were, I like you, and I like Domming you, and I like hanging out, so what does it matter?”

 

“I’m not going to be a good Sub if I start freaking out as soon as you start anything,” Smith says bluntly.

 

Ross shrugs. “Then I won’t start anything.”

 

“What, tonight? Ever? What if…?”

 

“Enough worrying, you silly twat. Something fucking horrible happened to you less than twenty-four hours ago, and you’re worrying that you’re not ready to get busy already? I’d be worried if you were. Let’s take it as it comes.”

 

Smith wants to argue again, or maybe start grovelling in thankfulness, but he also can’t help smiling. “‘Get busy?’ Are you on a fucking children’s TV show or something?”

 

Ross rolls his eyes. “Not sure it would be a very appropriate topic. P-P-P-P-Pooh, w-w-what about bondage?”

 

Smith chokes with laughter despite himself. “Was that a fucking _dirty Piglet_ impression?”

 

“Didn’t get you going?” Ross asks, mock-offended.

 

“Fucking no chance, you weird prick,” Smith says, taking another mouthful of stir fry. He doesn’t feel quite so sick now. A moment later though, he nods to Ross’s bag. “You weren’t thinking of getting lucky tonight then?”

 

“Oh.” Ross looks a bit embarrassed. “Not really. I was thinking if you needed company, I could stay over, no sex or anything.”

 

Smith pretends to think about it. “Just some, like, dedicated spooning?”

 

“Sounds good to me.”

 

“After we waste a few more hours catching up on gaming time, that is,” Smith notes, jabbing his fork more than a little aggressively in Ross’ direction. “Your choice.”

 

“Have you got FIFA?” Ross suggests.

 

Smith lets his mouth dramatically fall open. “Oh my fucking God. You’re a fucking FIFA scrub? Put down your stir fry and get the fuck out.”

 

***

 

Smith sends Trott a quick text saying that everything is OK, and then they mess about gaming for a couple of hours. But Smith gets bored after a while and starts taking the piss out of Ross’s bizarre username that he seems to use for _every damn game_ , and then Ross confesses its ridiculous origins, and before he knows it they’ve been half-sitting, half-lying on Smith’s bed for hours, talking about their families, their childhoods, what they wanted to do when they were younger, how they ended up here. 

 

Smith barely notices how soppy and personal and domestic the whole thing is, but he does note how Ross is leaning eagerly in towards him, and the way his eyes seem to linger on Smith’s mouth. 

 

“Did you want something?” Smith says teasingly, interrupting their conversation, and indicating the dwindling distance between them. 

 

Ross looks a little embarrassed, and he shifts back a little until Smith catches his arm.

 

“You can stay here. Just wondered if you… wanted anything?” He licks his lips deliberately, and Ross’s eyes follow the movement, his body gravitating closer to Smith once more. He tries hard not to think about his flirting with Danny yesterday, pastes on a grin. 

 

“Can I kiss you?” Ross asks quietly. His face is very close now, Smith can see his pores, his eyelashes, the small hairs of his nearly-beard.

 

Smith gives a snort of laughter. “You don’t need to ask.”

 

Ross quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea. I can see you thinking about last night. You weren’t in control then. I want you to be in control now.”

 

Smith falters, the confident smirk slipping away. The image of Danny rises before him, and he swallows, hard. “I wasn’t…” Ross’s expression quickly tells him that denying it is pointless. He gives up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” 

 

“I’m not blaming you,” Ross says calmly. “I wasn’t asking for an apology. I was asking if I could kiss you.”

 

Smith lets his eyes focus on Ross’s, the steady, peaceful blue of them. He’d thought at first that this was a test, but it doesn’t feel like that now. It just feels like an open, sincere offer. “Yes. Please,” he says, a little roughly, and Ross leans in further to oblige him. His hand reaches gently for Smith’s jaw, and Smith leans into the touch as their lips meet, shifting his legs to the side so Ross has easier access. 

 

The kiss turns into two, then three, then more, but they are lazy and unhurried. Ross doesn’t reach for his shirt or even the rest of his body - he seems content just to hold Smith’s face and bestow soft, reverent affection on him. Smith had worried that he’d freeze up, and indeed this quiet tenderness is a little surprising, but very pleasant nonetheless. He lets his eyes drift closed.

 

They pull apart after a little while, but Smith sighs and leans into Ross’s chest. 

 

“OK?” Ross asks. Smith can feel the vibration of his voice against his ear. His eyes focus on the soft crinkles in Ross’s shirt, the tiny lines in the fabric.

 

“Yeah. I’m good.” A sliver of fear flashes through Smith. “I’m not sure about anything else though, can we stop here…?”

 

“Of course, Smith,” Ross says passively, as though the thought of “anything else” hadn’t even crossed his mind, and strokes his hair. Smith closes his eyes. This is so nice. He’d really like to be taken under, but he knows that he can’t handle that right now, no matter how much he _wants_. He sighs away his regret.

 

“Reckon I’m more trouble than you were expecting for a quick shag, eh?” he mutters after a little while, once he’s had time to feel a bit embarrassed by his sentimentality.

 

Ross snorts under his breath. “No offence, but if I all I wanted was a shag, you were already too much trouble.”

 

“Fuck off,” Smith mumbles under his breath.

 

“I’m saying you’re more than that, twat,” Ross complains, and Smith can feel him twisting a little of his hair idly between his fingers. 

 

“Thanks a lot. You’re winning me over with your honeyed words,” Smith says sarcastically.

 

“I’m serious!” Ross says with a chuckle. There’s another pause. “You do know it’s going to be all right, Smith? Like, I’m sure you feel like crap now, but you’ll be OK. You’ll get past it, and you know Trott and I are here for you, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Smith murmurs, and he almost believes it. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll be okaaaaay, Smith <3 More to come soon, the next chapter is an exciting one ;) Sorry, I'm inching towards Hatsome via shitloads of The Boys Talking Through Stuff. Thank you everyone as usual for the comments and support, THEY GIVE ME LIFE :D and please drop me asks or message me on tumblr, I'm friendly and often bored and always happy to chat fic and any ideas/requests you guys have xx


	6. Chapter 6

The next week is maddening.

 

For some reason the uni calendar had scheduled all exams early on the term, but students are expected to stay on until the end for supervisor meetings, careers talks, and starting to think about their second-year projects (yeah, like that’s going to happen). In reality, this has meant Smith has had a ridiculous amount of free time, and all through exams he’d been obsessively looking forward to the luxury of doing fuck all. 

 

Except that he wasn’t just looking forward to doing fuck all, he had also been looking forward to doing fuck-ing, and right now that is resolutely off the table because his brain is being so goddamned stupid. Frustratingly, he feels incredibly horny and up for it… until he’s in a situation with Ross where they could actually go at it, and then all his bravado deserts him. 

 

It’s not like he hasn’t had opportunity, either - they’ve been spending a lot of time together, admittedly often under Trott’s supervision. They’ve gotten into the habit of going round to Trott’s mid-morning, gaming, chatting (and laughing a hell of a lot) as a trio, and then he and Ross drift back to his in the afternoon or evening. But as soon as they’re alone, Smith feels like he utterly freezes up in the sex department. He can have been making flirty/teasing/borderline obscene comments all day (cueing a lot of eye-rolling from Trott), and yet face-to-face the idea fills him with dread. His poor dick is getting the worst mixed messages ever. 

 

Ross has been incredibly relaxed about the whole thing though, accepting the filthy banter with ease (and giving as much as he gets), and yet he never seems to expect anything when they go back to Smith’s. Sometimes they just chat and watch TV, sometimes they cuddle a little bit, sometimes Ross stays over and just sleeps like a warm, contented log by Smith’s side all night. It’s horribly domestic and Smith doesn’t know whether to be charmed or terrified. 

 

Surviving the sexual frustration would be one thing, but the urge to be put under is still overwhelmingly strong. Smith needs it more than ever, and somehow he’s perversely angry at the fact that Danny’s attempt just wasn’t what he needed to satisfy his craving. He supposes that it’s like being thirsty, and then having someone half-drown you. It’s still water, but it doesn’t actually solve your problem. He’d be pleased with that metaphor if it helped him at all, but it doesn’t really. That itch has gone from ‘annoying’ to ‘intolerable’. It’s on his mind _all the damn time_ , especially when he’s alone. It’s enough to drive him insane.

 

One evening, Ross suggests tentatively that they go through their yes-no-maybe lists together. Smith had actually completely forgotten about them. But since he doesn’t think the mere _thought_ of that kind of shit will set him off, and because he reasons that if they get it out of the way early on, the sooner they can to banging when he feel less panicky about the whole thing, he agrees. 

 

The list only shows their mutual “Yes”s and “Maybe”s, and it’s been long enough since Smith completed it that he can’t really remember exactly what he put down. He and Ross have some interesting overlap, however, from anal (giving and receiving), to bondage (obviously), to cross-dressing (that’s a bit of a surprise to Smith, to be honest, and his face goes scarlet when he remembers what he was thinking when he filled this in before - something to do with high heels and Ross pulling up a skirt Smith would be wearing). They cover dildos, hair-pulling, lingerie (not exactly a shocker, what with Ross’s comment about panties that time), spanking (just maybe), and role-playing (which causes more snorting laughter than it does arousal). The things that really get to Smith are “breathplay,” which has been something he’s secretly and enthusiastically fantasised about for a hell of a long time, and the fact that he and Ross have both “Maybe”-d a couple of options around including other partners.

 

Unfortunately reviewing the list just causes Smith to become even more horny, and apparently Ross has been warmed up by it too, because before long they go from squirming and teasing each other to snogging more passionately than they have all week. Before Smith knows it, he’s desperately grinding his cock against Ross’s leg through his jeans and gasping for more. Ross’s skin is warm and soft under his needy hands, and _please it just feels so good don’t think about it don’t think_.

 

“Stop, Smith,” Ross manages, his voice muffled. He’s pulling away a little. “You’re not ready… Are you ready? Are you OK?”

 

Smith gives a strangled groan of frustration and grabs Ross roughly by the shirt to pull him closer again. He realises he’s almost looming over Ross; he wants to seem brash and confident and up for this. “I want it,” he growls, hoping that if he sounds certain enough, it will somehow make it come true. _Don’t think about it, just do it, get over it, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, I just need to get over this, please, I need this_. He feels like he’s actively blocking out his concerned thoughts with a mental scream over them.

 

“Are you sure?” Ross repeats, and Smith feels like the scream is about to emerge from his mouth. He’s trying to do this spontaneously and without thinking, like ripping off a plaster, and Ross _won’t let him_. He just wants to forget there’s even a ‘problem’ at all, just _get on with it_.

 

“I _said_ ,” he insists. “Put me under. Now. I want it.”

 

“Safeword,” Ross manages, between the bruising kisses Smith is forcing on him. 

 

“Don’t worry about that shit, come on…”

 

“We’re not doing this without a fucking safeword, Smith, _what is it_?”

 

“Magic, magic, I know it all right, fine, fine, just _do it_.”

 

Ross pulls back a little again, so that Smith has time to catch his breath slightly, open his eyes and focus enough to see Ross’s blue eyes gaining that assertive edge. And in a few rapid, heart-pounding, breath-heaving seconds, he realises exactly what is going to happen. 

 

Panic rushes over him like a tidal wave.

 

It’s towering and unstoppable and icy cold and washes away all rational thought.

 

He feels frozen and terrified and his mouth is dry and there’s a Dom who’s going to control him and he can’t stop it and he has no ability to fight him off and _oh fuck no no no no no_ …

 

“Stop!” he yelps. “Stop, fuck, Ross, please! God, magic, _magic_ , stop! Don’t!”

 

Ross backs away so rapidly that it’s jarring, because a moment later Smith wants him back, to reassure him, to hold him. But almost immediately Smith realises that of course he’s done that because _oh God I just safeworded out_ , and he crumples on to the bed dejectedly, the horrible, paralysing fear fading away into disappointment and shame. God, how had he got that so horrifically wrong? Fuck.

 

“Smith, are you OK? Talk to me. Do you want me to go?” Ross looks stricken, though… not entirely surprised.

 

Smith shakes his head. He realises he’s shaking, or shivering, and gives a hoarse laugh. “Come back. Please. I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be sorry,” Ross says, his voice so gentle and kind that Smith almost wants to yell again. He comes and sits beside him on the bed, and Smith immediately huddles into his embrace.

 

“I messed up, I thought… ugh… I thought if I just got it over with, it wouldn’t…”

 

“It’s OK,” Ross says quietly, rubbing his back. “If it helps… I thought you weren’t ready. I wasn’t going to put you under, I was just testing the waters.”

 

Smith snorts faintly. In other circumstances he might be angry, but all he can feel is rueful and exhausted. “Great. It’s obvious to everyone except me that I’m too fucked up for this shit now.”

 

“You’re not fucked up. You’re just not ready.”

 

“It’s fucking… not rational, though!” Smith says in frustration, teeth gritted. “I know you’re not going to hurt me, and yet… in that second before you do it, it’s like I just forget all that? All I can… see…” He waves a hand in agitation. “Is that you’re a Dom! And then my head just fucks me.”

 

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Ross deadpans, and for a second Smith is confused until he joins the dots with the head-fucking thing, and punches Ross lightly in the leg.

 

“Fuck off, this is no joking matter. Because it’s also killed my boner.”

 

“Oh shit,” Ross says, in an over-dramatic traumatised voice. “Oh God no, please, not your boner! I need that!”

 

Smith laughs, and then gives a funny sad hiccup, and then they both laugh harder. 

 

“I’m so sorry, mate,” Smith says, once they’ve caught their breath. “I shouldn’t have pushed myself like that. Knew it was a bad idea.”

 

“I told you, it’s fine. Though you should be more careful of yourself, yeah?”

 

“Yeah. I just… I need it so bad. I feel like I’m fucking… shaking apart, y’know? I just want my brain to _stop_.” Smith pulls on his hair in agitation. “Ugh.”

 

“I know you’re going to hate this… but have you considered talking to someone? Student Services?” Ross suggests hesitantly.

 

Smith smothers another laugh. “Are you talking a counsellor, or a sex therapist? Fuck, you sound like Trott. No, I don’t want to do that.”

 

“OK. Thought I’d better ask. It’s still early days though, y’know?”

 

“It’s been almost a week!” Smith protests. Then he realises that sounds mildly ridiculous, and corrects himself. “And I _know_ that’s not that long… but it would be different if I didn't want it so bad, y’know? It’s killing me. I think about it all the fucking time. And then, when I’m _this close_ , I fucking freak out about it!”

 

“It’s _fine_ , Smith…”

 

“It doesn’t feel fine! I feel like shit! I just want it to _stop_ , OK?!”

 

Smith’s voice has risen without him noticing, but when he glances across at Ross, he realises that his face is looking pained as well. His anger falls away. “Sorry. Is this… is this hard for you too?”

 

Ross shrugs. He opens his mouth, closes it again, shakes his head slightly, licks his lips. “Not as bad as for you. But I want to Dom you, and look after you, and I can’t do either. It’s hard seeing you like this.”

 

“Ugh, fucking, _fucking_ , Danny,” Smith groans, covering his eyes. “I wish I could just go over there and rip his fucking arms off.”

 

“And then beat him to death with them?” Ross suggests.

 

“Good fucking thinking.”

 

 

***

Ross stays over that night, which Smith is grateful for. He finds his presence soothing, even if it makes him ache horribly for more. It’s nice just to talk with the lights off until he falls asleep though - it keeps him safe from his anxious, circling thoughts. 

 

“Smith?” Ross says quietly, and Smith nudges him playfully.

 

“Yeah, I’m still here, mate, surprise.”

 

“Piss off. Can I ask you something?”

 

Smith rolls his eyes in the dark. “Yeah.”

 

“Do you think… Would it be OK if I spoke to Trott about this?”

 

Smith frowns, rolls over to try and see Ross’s face. It’s in shadow, but he can make out his concerned expression. 

 

“I mean, yeah… I guess, but why would you…?”

 

“Well, he knows you better than anyone, he was there last week, he…”

 

“Yeah, I get why Trott out of everyone,” Smith says. “But, like… why anyone at all? Not that I mind Trott, I tell him everything anyway… I’m just curious.”

 

“Well, he seems like he’d be good at this kind of thing, y’know? He’s kinda… wise, if you know what I mean?”

 

“Oh Jesus, don’t let him hear you say that, he’d be insufferable.”

 

“Yeah, but you know what I mean. Might be able to give us some advice.”

 

“Yeah, I mean, sure.”

 

“I just…” There’s a long silence, and Smith almost thinks Ross has finished, until he speaks again. “I feel a bit out of my depth, y’know? That’s not a criticism, I could just do with checking I’m on the right track.”

 

“No problem, mate,” Smith mutters. His eyes have been drifting closed, and he feels like he’s inches from dozing off. “Now, can we go the fuck to sleep?”

 

***

 

The next morning, Ross gets first use of the shower, with the deal that he’ll head to Trott’s first, and also give Smith a tenner to buy lunch for the three of them from Costcutter to bring when he comes. Seems like a pretty good deal to Smith, though he feels a bit weird as he knocks on Trott’s door, carrier bag in hand. He’s not used to being out of the loop like this, and though it doesn’t feel bad, it’s definitely kind of weird. He wonders what they’ve been saying. If he didn’t trust Trott as much as he did, he might feel like his privacy was at stake, but he’s completely sure Ross could never tell Trott anything as mortifying as the shit Smith has spilled over the years. There’s something quite nice about it, in a way. The thought that he’s got two people worried about him. Well, not, worried, but caring about him. It makes him feel secure and comfortable.

 

Trott opens the door a crack. “Not letting you in unless you have food.”

 

Smith brandishes his bag. “Three meal deals for three quid each. And then I spent the last pound on Doritos, they were on offer.”

 

“In that case, come right in.”

 

That afternoon, Smith tries to judge Trott’s manner. He seems… different? He starts to worry about what Ross has said. He hadn’t really thought about it making Trott uncomfortable. But no, he doesn’t seem uncomfortable. He just seems… thoughtful? But he’s not quieter - in fact, if anything, he’s joining in Ross and Smith’s yelling more than usual. Smith just can’t put his finger on it.

 

Trott has a supervisor meeting at 4 though, so Ross and Smith drift back home. They’ve been spending more time at Smith’s recently, despite his lack of ensuite shower, because it’s closer to Trott’s, and also, Smith suspects, because Ross thinks he’ll feel more secure in his home environment. Which might be true, who knows.

 

Ross also seems a bit different on the walk home, like he’s waiting to say something. Smith doesn’t ask, but he’s becoming really curious. Ross doesn’t seem worried exactly, more… nervous? What’s going on? 

 

“Come on then, spill,” Smith says, as soon as they’ve got inside.

 

“What?” Ross asks, feigning innocence.

 

Smith raises his eyebrows. “Come on. You’re a fucking open book. What’s going on?”

 

Ross pulls a face. “Was it that obvious?”

 

“Yeah, mate. Don’t ever become an actor, you’re shit. Now tell me.”

 

“Fine,” Ross says with a sigh, sitting on Smith’s bed and leaning against the wall in what Smith realises with slight surprise has become his spot. “It’s about Trott.”

 

“Yeah? What’s up? He wasn’t weird about it, was he? What did he say?”

 

“Well… It was more me… I made a suggestion. And this is a no-pressure thing, I was just checking to see if Trott _might_ be on board, like, no obligation, but…”

 

“Come _on_ ,” Smith whines impatiently.

 

“I’m trying to explain! OK, I was thinking… I was thinking that maybe he could be there when I tried to put you under.”

 

Smith can’t think of what he’d been expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this. He realises his mouth has fallen open in shock. “What? You? What? I don’t…”

 

“Don’t worry, like I said, I didn’t sign you up for anything. I just thought, what you said last night…”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“When you said that you thought that your brain was just registering that I was a Dom, and that you were in danger, even you knew you were OK.”

“Yeah?”

 

“Well, I thought… You feel safe with Trott, right? I saw what you were like with him last week. Well, the way you’re with him all the time, to be honest. You trust him with anything. You yelled out for him when you were in trouble.”

 

“That wasn’t anything to do with… not wanting you,” Smith says quickly, feeling bad. “I just knew Trott was at the party, so I…”

 

“No no, I’m not offended by it, obviously, he’s your best friend. But I thought we might be able to… do something with that trust the two of you have. Because inside, your… subconscious, or whatever shit… Like, it doesn’t sound like you’ve ever completely trusted Doms, fair enough, and even that’s just taken a massive hit with this Danny crap. But you trust Trott, 100%. And I wonder if that… safety feeling thing, it might counteract the other stuff enough to get you under.”

 

Smith realises his mouth is open again. He can’t believe Ross has considered this so much, thought through it like this, let alone come up with a solution that seems quite so… unorthodox. Not bad. Just weird. Surprising.

 

“I’m sorry if you feel it was… wrong of me to speak to Trott about it,” Ross says anxiously. “But I didn’t think it would be fair to him if we talked without him… And if I’d just brought it up to both of you at once, you’d have both been under pressure.”

 

“So… what did he say?” Smith says, finding his voice again. “Was he… OK with it?”

 

“Yeah,” Ross says simply. “He wants to help, he thinks it doesn’t sound like a bad idea, if you’d be OK with it.”

 

“But we wouldn’t be doing like… sexual stuff with him there?” Smith checks quickly, though his heart weirdly speeds up at the thought. That doesn’t actually feel like a bad thought. Wait, what? Jesus.

 

“No, no, just putting you under. And if it doesn’t work, we haven’t lost anything… And if it does, maybe we’ll break through this barrier you’ve got about it.”

 

Ross suddenly looks worried again. “And don’t think that I’m like… pushing you. If you didn’t want to try this stuff again for weeks, months, even, like, that would be OK? But you’re clearly suffering, and I just wondered if this would… help?”

 

Smith still feels vaguely shell-shocked. He blinks, breathes, ruffles his hair thoughtfully. “I mean… yeah. I think it might. But Trott and I… we’ve never…” He feels suddenly embarrassed. Well, that is true, but it doesn’t completely ring true, because he has _thought about it before_ , and should he confess that? Would it be weird if he didn’t?

 

“Sorry…” Ross begins again, but Smith shakes his head.

 

“No, don’t be… I just…” He has that strange sensation again, of the words he’s about to say being, for a moment, existing-and-not. He has a couple of seconds to decide whether he lets them out. “I’ve-thought-about-doing-stuff-with-Trott-before… and I… fuck… I don’t know whether that would make it weird?” His heart is pounding.

 

Ross, oddly, doesn’t look surprised. “Yeah, I figured you might have.”

 

“And I…. what? What?”

 

“Well, you two are like, really fucking close. I figured there might have been something between you. I mean, like, I did say I assumed you were dating at first, right?”

 

Smith is completely non-plussed, the wind taken out of his sails. “So you don’t think that would be… weird?”

 

Ross thinks about for a moment. “Not if we talk about it, right?”

 

Smith doesn’t know what to say to that. “You are… you are just too much of a decent guy,” he says, before he thinks about what’s coming out of his mouth. 

 

Ross laughs. “God, if Smith from a couple of months ago could see you now…”

 

“Fuck off,” Smith says lightly, laughing himself. Then he pauses again, just to actually take in the last few minutes. “Fuck, you’re really serious about this?”

 

“Yeah, like I said, I think it might work for you, and I’ve spoken to Trott about it, so…” Ross shrugs. “If you’re in?”

 

“Yeah, yeah… I… when did you think…? I mean, I’m sure you’re going to say not to rush it… But I want to do it like… now?! Is that crazy? I just… I feel like I’m going out of my head.”

 

Ross quirks an eyebrow. “We can phone Trott. Once he’s out of his meeting.”

 

“Yeah probably not a good idea when he’s having, like, a serious conversation with his supervisor.”

 

“In the meantime, though,” Ross says excitedly. “We can work out a plan about how we’re going to do this?”

 

“Jesus Christ. Planning. What did I do to deserve this?” Smith mock-complains, but the fact that he can’t really stop smiling spoils the effect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really excited to see what you think of this one, guys, I was really pleased with it! :D Also I've started writing the next chapter, but not finished it due to lots of irl stuff on my plate... BUT this gives you a great opportunity to drop me a comment here or an ask on tumblr saying if you want anything in particular to happen next! I can't promise anything, but I love ideas from you guys, and the first time including Trott in the Ross/Smith dynamic is pretty important to me. Please leave me a comment, I LOVE THEM (and they definitely inspire me to update faster haha - thanks to General_Gerard for nudging me into posting this today), thank you all so much xx


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, think probably the longest chapter yet guys, hope it (somewhat) makes up for the wait!!

“Get a shift on, Trott!” Smith yells into the phone. “The Chinese’s been here for ten minutes, and Ross is eyeing up your fried rice.”

 

“I’ll eye up _his_ fucking rice,” Trott snarks back. 

 

“That doesn’t even fucking make sense!”

 

“OK, OK, I’m here, I’m here. Come down and let me in.”

 

Smith mock-groans into the phone, hangs up, throws it on the bed, firmly instructs Ross “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT TOUCHING THOSE SPRING ROLLS UNTIL I’M BACK,” and runs downstairs to get Trott. 

 

Somehow, when he flings open the door, he expects something to be… different? But obviously, it isn’t. Trott is still Trott - short, out of breath, pushing his stupid fringe back off his forehead, his smile lighting up his face as he sees Smith. 

 

Smith actually pauses for a moment to gawp at him. 

 

“Are you going to let me in, or is this some kind of shitty diversion so Ross can eat my rice?” Trott says impatiently.

 

“Yeah, I mean no, sure, come in…”

 

On their way upstairs Smith feels like he should say something like “are you really sure about this crazy plan?” or “so has this been something that now you think about it you’ve secretly wanted for years haha” or even “let’s just call this fucking thing off, something that seems this great is surely going to have some terrible hidden consequences”. But there aren’t that many stairs, and besides, Trott is apparently extremely motivated to protect his rice. 

 

They talk about Trott’s sodding supervisor meeting, of all things, while they eat, because apparently Trott is that one guy who is actually thinking about his second-year project. Actually, scratch that, because for fuck’s sake, of course Ross is too. Smith is afraid that if he rolls his eyes many more times he’s going to give himself a headache. It does make him laugh, though, how well Trott and Ross seem to get on, and how clever and goal-driven they can both be, when they stop fucking around once in a while. 

 

Once the conversation, and the food, is finished, however, there’s an odd, tense, anticipatory silence. Smith finds that one of his legs is bobbing up and down in nervousness/excitement. 

 

“So,” Trott says, taking a swig of his drink and leaning back against Smith’s wall lazily. “Let’s get to the point. Tell me you two have talked about this.” His manner is casual, but his tone serious. 

 

“Our second-year projects?” Smith says sarcastically, and Trott shoots him a Look. Ross intervenes, however, before it goes any further.

 

“Yeah, we’ve talked about it most of the afternoon. We think we’ve made a pretty decent plan.”

 

“OK, great,” Trott says encouragingly, setting his drink down on the side and giving them his full attention. It’s odd, how much authority he seems to exude. If anything, Smith would think that Trott would be the one feeling uncomfortable and out of his depth, but he seems entirely calm and ready to listen. “What’s the plan?”

 

“Well,” Ross begins, but Trott holds up an apologetic hand.

 

“Sorry Ross, but to be honest I feel like I can be pretty confident that you know the plan.” He points accusatorially at Smith. “Smith, talk.”

 

“Fucking rude,” Smith protests. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

 

“I know that,” Trott says, rolling his eyes. “But Ross is far more about the organisation and the order and shit… While you, not so fucking much.”

 

Smith huffs, but now the two of them are looking at him expectantly, like he’s at the weirdest ever parent-teacher conference, being persuaded to show what he’s learned. He gives an intensely long-suffering sigh. There’s something he’s always quite liked about the attention of Trott ticking him off, though, so he’s not overly bothered.

 

“OK. So we thought we could do this in stages, right? Because we don’t want to send me under too deep or too quickly in case anything goes wrong. So I sit down, or whatever, Trott sits next to me, holds my fucking hand for moral support or something…”

 

He takes a breath, lets it out slowly. This is harder to say than he thought it would be. Having Trott _right there_ makes it seem all the more real. Are they really doing this? This is mad. Holy shit.

 

“Keep going,” Trott says.

 

“And then… erm, Ross puts me under.” Smith rubs at his beard in an attempt to seem casual, and to let himself catch his breath. Jesus, if he’s this pathetic just _talking_ about it, how are they ever going to pull this off? “Very shallow, for a minute or so, if things go OK.”

 

“And if things don’t go OK?” Trott asks calmly.

 

“Well, we’ve got safewords,” Smith says reasonably, like he’s a mature adult or something. Then ruins it with, “This time.” Ross snorts behind him, and Smith gives him the finger without looking around.

 

“I do not need to hear the fucking backstory to that one,” Trott says, deadpan. “What are your safewords?”

 

“Mine’s ‘magic’, Ross’s is ‘marble’. Er, what’s yours?”

 

Asking for Trott’s safeword is a fucking weird feeling. 

 

Trott actually gives an awkward laugh. It’s the first indication that he might be finding this weird as well. “Catfish.”

 

Ross snorts. Smith’s mouth falls open. “Are you fucking kidding me.”

 

“How the fuck did you…? What…?” Ross begins.

 

“When we were at school, Smith went through a phase of calling me Trout, and then we went on some shitty aquarium field trip, and then he decided I looked like the fucking catfish,” Trott explains. “I hate the weird fuckers.”

 

Smith is torn between bursting into laughter, worrying that that might be a bit rude when someone confesses something as private as that, and feeling kinda touched and conflicted that Trott has used a random moment from his and Smith’s childhood as his _fucking safeword_.

 

“Have you… have you used that before?” Smith asks, trying to keep a straight face.

 

“I’ve never had to use it, but I have, er, mentioned it before,” Trott says, and then he just loses it, apparently at the sight of Smith and Ross trying frantically to hold in their amusement, and in a moment the three of them are roaring with laughter and Ross is actually rolling on the floor.

 

“Are you, are you _fucking serious_?” Smith gasps, between snorts.

 

“Yeah,” Trott chokes. “Serious as a funeral, mate.”

 

“Fucking,” Ross manages. “Did people think you’d had like, oh God, like a terrible cat-fishing experience?”

 

That sets them howling again, and it’s actually quite a while before they’ve all managed to sit up straight and try and act like adults again. Trott is actually wiping tears from his eyes. Suffice it to say, any awkwardness has been comprehensively dispersed.

 

“Right, OK,” Smith tries, and Ross immediately starts giggling again. “No, fucking stop. OK. Where’d we got to?”

 

“ _Safewords_ ,” Ross breathes, and Smith tries manfully not to just fucking lose it again. 

 

“OK, no seriously,” Trott says. “Safewords, but can we do traffic lights as well? Smith.” He points accusingly. “Tell me you fucking know the traffic lights.”

 

“Red for stop, green for go, yellow for… slow…?” Smith reels off, losing confidence at the end. 

 

“Yeah, basically,” Trott confirms. “Yellow is like, slow down, pause, go careful, whatever. Good for when you don’t think you’re quite at like, safeword level, but just want things to calm down a bit.”

 

“OK, cool. We can use that too,” Ross says. He sounds like he’s itching to get out a notebook and start making a list. Smith side-eyes him, hard. 

 

“Anyway, after we’ve tried it once, we can see if it went OK, and then the second time under deeper, maybe for like ten, fifteen minutes? And then the third time, quite deep, for however long we fancy, really.” Smith shrugs. “But I dunno if we’ll get to that stage.”

 

“OK,” Trott says. “What are your boundaries for when you’re under? Just so I know.”

 

“Erm…” Smith flails around for an answer. “Guess it depends how we get on, and how I’m feeling. I’m OK with being, erm, touched.” His face flushes red. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s thinking of Trott touching, but it’s sufficiently embarrassing nonetheless. “And sometimes Ross, like, tells me to do something, but, er…” He shrugs helplessly. 

 

“We’ll see how we get on,” Ross interrupts, before Smith embarrasses himself even further.

 

Smith nods. “We normally talk quite a lot anyway, it’s not like I can’t say if I want something, or don’t want it.”

 

“OK, good,” Trott says approvingly, and something in Smith lights up a little at that praise. He tries to smother any eager expression that treacherously crosses his face, but he can tell that Ross at least spotted it. 

 

“Do you, er, have anything you want to add?” Smith suggests, slightly formally, and Trott hesitates.

 

“Look, I… this is…” He rubs his nose awkwardly. “I feel like I should just ask this straight up… How involved do you want me to be in this?”

 

Smith freezes, glances to Ross for support. Ross, helpfully, shrugs and pulls a face. “Up to you, mate.”

 

“I…” Smith’s face is probably flaming scarlet by now. “I guess… Take a lead from what Ross is doing? I’m fine with you talking to me and stuff when I’m under… I don’t know.”

 

Trott nods, business-like, but Smith can see a pink tinge to his cheeks as well. “OK. Well, like you say, we can keep talking about it.”

 

There’s a short silence that seems to last a long time. “Are we… Are we doing this, then?” Smith murmurs. Now it’s so damn close, he feels a strange combination of thrilled and frightened and desperate.

 

“If you’re ready,” Ross says calmly, and Smith tries very hard not to find that hot because he hasn’t even processed what he’s going to do if he gets an obvious boner with Trott here watching. And to be honest, the idea of Trott watching might be just slightly boner-worthy in its own right, which really doesn’t help matters.

 

“Where do you want me?” he asks lightly instead.

 

“Sitting on the bed, back to the wall?” Ross suggests. “I can go one side, Trott the other?”

 

Smith swallows. He feels warm, but his hairs are standing on end. “Yeah, sure. Trott, that OK?”

 

“Whatever you say,” Trott says.

 

Smith closes his eyes for a moment, tries to focus. God, this whole situation is so weird. He almost wants someone else to be taking charge, but he knows why the others are giving him control. Still, it doesn’t make it any easier, or make it feel any less bizarre and unreal. 

 

“Smith,” Ross says, very quietly. “If you don’t want to do this, that is absolutely fine, we…”

 

“No, no, I want this!” Smith says quickly, and too enthusiastically. He scrambles to his feet and gets himself positioned half-way down the bed, dangling his feet off the end. “What the fuck are we waiting for?”  


“Smith…” Ross says reprovingly, but Trott is getting up already. He comes to sit on Smith’s left-hand side. 

 

“You want this to stop at any point - it gets too weird… just say the word,” Trott says seriously, and Smith nods. He’s struck by Trott’s face once again, as they sit surprisingly close. His eyes are dark and warm, his expression sincere and open. Smith forces himself to look away, as he hears the sound of Ross locking the door and coming to sit on Smith’s other side, looking cautious but interested.

 

“No, I think this… I think this is good,” Smith says, his voice faltering a little. What he can’t explain is that this is too fucking good, like it’s a really weird daydream that he’s never even dared to have, and that he can’t quite believe that they both care about him so much as to do this, and is he kind of fucked up for almost being pleased that this is happening? Trott’s just trying to help a friend through a fucking trauma, Smith shouldn’t be enjoying himself.

 

“Right, are you OK?” Ross asks gently. “Don’t take the piss, but d’you want to do some, like, deep breathing or some shit to relax?”

 

Smith laughs, but realises his breath has been coming a bit fast, with the nerves. Not to mention his heart is hammering. “Maybe I should, ha.” 

 

“Do you want me to like, hold your…” Trott begins, and Smith interlaces the fingers of his left hand with Trott’s right without a second thought, appreciating the contact. He glances up at Ross again. 

 

“Hit me,” he says. 

 

“If you want to get into that, I think we’ll have to do that on our own time,” Ross jokes, and Smith tries and fails to glare at him. Trott laughs next to him. “OK, OK, I’m sorry. You sure you’re ready?”  


“Yeah,” Smith says, with all the confidence he can muster, and then closes his eyes, because he’s a fucking coward and he’s scared. Trott squeezes his hand. Smith squeezes back.

 

Ross lays a hand on his shoulder. For a moment, there’s a beat of warm, still, silence. 

 

“You good, Smith?” Ross asks again, and Smith is tempted to roll his eyes but just nods instead. The anticipation/fear/irrational-panic is burning low in his gut, but Trott’s hand on his helps ground him, anchor him, reassure him, this is OK, nothing bad is going to happen, Trott’s here, it’s all right. “OK, _down you go._ ”

 

The feeling is one of sheer, unadulterated relief.

 

For one thing, Smith doesn’t panic, or feel awful, he just slips under, easy as blinking.

 

But mainly it’s because this feels like the first time he’s been able to truly relax, to let go, to step out of his agitated, buzzing, rushing brain in _weeks_. It’s like sinking into a warm, deep bath, and he wants it to go on and on forever.

 

“Oh,” he says simply.

 

He can hear the smile in Ross’s voice when he says, “OK?”

 

“More than OK,” Smith replies. He can tell he’s only barely under really because it’s effortless to talk, but his body feels pleasantly warm and hazy nonetheless. The tension has completely drained out of him. However, he squeezes Trott’s hand again for good measure. 

 

“You enjoying yourself?” Trott asks with amusement. 

 

“Yeahhh,” Smith groans, and both of them laugh. Smith suddenly feels like he wants to see their faces, so he squints his eyes open. 

 

Ross is directly in front of him, kneeling up on the bed, hand still on Smith’s shoulder. His face is happy and glowing, and Smith can’t help but smirk lazily at him. He turns his head slowly to see Trott, who gives him a fond smile and a long-suffering eyebrow-raise. The words “I love you guys” are so fucking close to spilling out of Smith’s mouth, but he manages to hold them back because yeah that’s really not a can of worms that needs opening now (or possibly ever).

 

“This is so good,” he says instead, and Ross gives a little huff of satisfaction and ruffles his hair. Smith leans into the touch as he’s keeping his eye contact with Trott, and it’s kinda strange, but mostly just _really, really good, jeez_.

 

“Can I come up to go deeper?” he asks after a little while. 

 

“Sure,” Ross says quickly. “One, two, three…”

 

Smith comes up, senses the minute changes in sensation, the way his hearing and sight seem a little bit sharper again. He stretches his legs, shifts his position on the bed slightly. Ross is eyeing him with an odd, pleased, but vaguely speculative expression. 

 

“You want to go straight back under? Anything you want to do differently?”

 

“Nah, not really. You guys OK?”

 

“I’m good,” Ross says.

 

“Right as rain, sunshine,” Trott chirps, and Smith turns to face him, meets his kind brown eyes. 

 

He suddenly feels that it would be really, really fucking good to be put under while he’s looking dead into Trott’s face, and because Ross is brilliant, or a mind-reader, or just really fucking lucky with his timing, a second later he murmurs, “OK, Smith, down for me, down, down, down.”

 

Smith has to close his eyes, but not before he has a front-row seat to Trott’s eyes widening and him saying “fuck” with vigour. The sight makes him give a dopey smile, and he hears Trott and Ross chuckle again.

 

“I can’t really believe this worked?!” Ross says, half-laughing. 

 

“It _so_ worked,” Smith manages to interject, letting himself slump back against the wall. He feels great. The points of contact that are Trott’s grip on his hand and Ross’s hand on his knee feel warm and grounding. 

 

Trott and Ross exchange a few more sentences, though Smith misses them as he drifts. Someone puts another warm hand on his leg. He tunes back in when Ross whispers his name, though he just hums in response, not bothering to open his eyes.

 

“Lazy,” Ross says quietly, leaning in close. Smith tilts his head back as Ross kisses him gently, his hand winding into his hair. He pulls on it a little, which is delicious. Smith smiles into the kiss. Ross’s lips are soft and undemanding, and Smith groans a little into his mouth. When Ross pulls away, Smith naturally tilts his face towards Trott, and then freezes when he realises he’s somehow half-expecting a kiss from that direction as well. What the fuck?

 

“C’mere, Trotty,” he grunts instead, and slings an arm around Trott’s shoulder to pull him into an awkward hug. Trott pretends to grumble but allows himself to be pulled over.

 

“You too,” Smith insists, and grabs Ross too, who half-topples over on to him, laughing. 

 

“For fuck’s sake,” Trott says, laughing too, pulling Smith to the side so there’s more room for Ross to fit. “You two.”

 

Smith arranges his arms a little more comfortably, his eyes still closed, and gives a contented sigh. The memory of worrying that being put under without a sexual element would be awkward or embarrassing somehow surfaces, and he wonders how he was so wrong. This is so good, so easy, so simple. Then again, he trusts Ross a lot more at this point, and well, Trott goes without saying.

 

He doesn’t know how long he stays, floating peacefully, until Ross asks, “You wanna come up again?”

 

“OK,” Smith says dreamily. Then, before he can think it through (besides, thinking isn’t exactly his strong suit at the best of times, let alone like this), he says, “Could Trott…?”

 

“Bring you up?” Trott says concernedly, shifting under Smith’s arm. His hair tickles Smith’s skin. “Are you sure, mate?”

 

“Yeah, I mean… if y’don’t mind… It’s not important…”

 

“No, no, I’ll do it if you want.”

 

Smith can almost sense the two of them exchanging glances. 

 

Trott’s voice sounds a little uncertain. “Are you ready?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“OK…” There’s a brief pause, then a soft breath and “Up you come, sunshine, that’s it…”

 

It feels different, with Trott. Smith has a very vague memory of what it was like after Danny, but really he was too out of it then to appreciate the technique. It’s impossible to pin down exactly what it is, because it’s all over in a second or two, and then he’s blinking and breathing deep and lifting his head.

 

“All right?” Ross asks, and kisses his head. Smith grins.

 

“Yeah. One more time?”

 

“Greedy bastard. D’you want to lie down?”

 

“Good idea.”

 

Ross shifts away and stands up beside the bed, as Smith dramatically flings himself down, setting his head to the pillow, and tugs Trott down with him. The three of them seem to shift and rearrange themselves so easily, it feels disconcertingly like they’ve rehearsed this. 

 

“There’s really not room, Smith,” Trott objects lightly as he manoeuvres himself so he and Smith are lying side by side. Ross has grabbed Smith’s desk chair so he can sit beside the bed, and is eyeing them amusedly. 

 

“It’s fine,” Smith insists, and then turns expectantly to Ross. “Ready?”

 

“You’re getting so impatient,” Ross teases. “All right, so it’s OK to go deep this time? Let me know if you want to come up, yeah?”  


“I will,” Smith says, and then Ross leans in to kiss him again (as Smith fumbles for Trott’s hand, not because he needs the reassurance, but he just wants him to be there with him) and pulls him deep, deep down.

 

Initially Smith gets so caught up in the sensation, and getting his head around the bone-deep contentment, that he almost forgets the others are there. When he remembers to pay attention, it’s almost impossible to make out their conversation, he’s under so deep. But he’s not scared, or worried, he feels, above all, _safe_. It’s OK. It’s all OK. He can let it all go. His mind is beautifully empty and quiet.

 

Someone touches his leg again - he lets them manoeuvre it into a different position. There’s a hand in his hair - he noses up into the touch. Someone touches his shoulder, his knee, even rests briefly on his hip. It’s all OK. Someone whispers at him to open his eyes, and he does, briefly, squinting in the light, but he lets them drift closed again almost immediately afterwards. Someone touches his cheek, even his eyelashes, smoothes an affectionate brush of sensation around his ear. It’s perfectly sensual and calming and each moment seems to drip effortlessly into the next. 

 

It’s almost like being asleep, really. Occasionally little snippets of the outside world drift into his consciousness. One remark from Trott catches at the edges of his awareness, sticking in his mind for some reason.

 

“Look at him. It’s enough to make you jealous, isn’t it?”

 

Smith doesn’t hear Ross’s response. Somehow, though, the words strike him as important.

 

_Enough to make you jealous, isn’t it?_

 

He honestly has no idea how much time has passed when Ross shakes his shoulder very gently. 

 

“Still green, Smith?” a voice asks, though it takes him a moment to realise that it belongs to Trott. It’s like the two of them are working in perfect collaboration.

 

“Mmmm, c’n I come up?” Smith mumbles. He feels sated already, and he wants to see and talk to the others again. It’s not that he feels isolated when he’s under, but he’s insulated from the outside world. 

 

“‘Course,” Ross says, and brings him up again, little by little. It’s slow enough not to be too disorientating, but Smith still blinks a little in the light, stretching and groaning a little. Trott is still half-lying next to him, propped up on one elbow. His other hand is resting lightly on Smith’s arm. Smith wonders in a flurry how many of the touches he’d felt had come from him. 

 

“Are you good?” Ross asks gently, and Smith can hear the tenderness in his voice. 

 

“Yeah,” Smith mumbles. He clenches his eyes shut for another moment, rubs them, and then opens them again. His voice feels a little croaky. The light in the room has changed since he first went under. “What time is it?”

 

“Late,” Trott says, with a smile in his voice. “You’re lucky Ross and I get on, or we’d have been getting bored without you.”

 

Smith grins, relaxes back on to the pillows for a moment. “God, I feel knackered. Good knackered though, like, so good.”

 

“Well, you can get an early night if you want,” Ross says, and he runs a hand through Smith’s hair. Smith turns over to kiss him (once, twice… maybe one more time), which is lovely, though he slightly regrets leaving the warmth of Trott’s body behind him. 

 

Trott gives a little cough as the two of them pull apart. “I should be… going, actually.”

 

Smith rolls back, surprised and not a little taken-aback. “Why? You don’t have to. Are you OK? Why would you go?” He feels unreasonably hurt and somewhat selfish - why should Trott have to stick around now his part is done? But Smith _wants_ him to stay; he feels like he’s done something wrong to make him leave.

 

Ross touches a hand to Smith’s other arm as he says, “Maybe you could stick around a bit longer, have a drink, something to eat.”

 

Smith feels Trott tense beside him. He knows what Ross is asking. It’s an aftercare thing, and he can’t read Trott’s expression well enough to tell what he’s thinking about it. 

 

“Smith and I’ll have something, anyway,” Ross continues. Smith darts his eyes across to him, but Ross’s focus is purely on Trott. “It would be nice if you stayed.”

 

The moment of tension continues for a moment. Trott looks like he’s fighting not to clench his jaw. His fingers are deceptively still on Smith’s arm. “I…” He shakes his head. “Yeah, fine, I’ll have a quick drink.”

 

Ross relaxes. “Cool,” he says, way too casually. “I’ll just go grab some water from downstairs, that OK, Smith?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Smith says distractedly.

 

“Look after him,” Ross says half-jokingly, presumably to Trott, as he gets up, grabs their empty glasses from dinner, and unlocks the door with his free hand.

 

“What was that about?” Smith says immediately, turning over to face Trott fully. “Are you OK?”

 

Trott’s expression is conflicted. “I… yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“No you’re not, I’m your best mate, don’t bullshit me,” Smith says, a little crabby. He feels a bit vulnerable still, like he’s raw, and he doesn’t like the idea of Ross and Trott squabbling. He leaves him cold and worried. 

 

Trott shakes his head. “I just don’t want to intrude on the two of you. And I don’t need Ross fucking… minding me.” He rubs his forehead, sighs. 

 

“He’s not… He wouldn’t be funny about it,” Smith says, though he’s not quite sure about that. After all, Trott is a Switch, does Ross think he might have been… affected by this? Was he affected? Smith can’t tell. Does Trott feel patronised somehow? That kind of hurts, if he does. Smith doesn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, but Trott being offended by the Sub side of things seems pretty hurtful from Smith’s point of view.

 

“Yeah, I know, I know, it’s just… awkward, you know?” Trott says, with a bit of a grimace. “Sorry, I shouldn’t… Are you OK?”

 

“Yeah,” Smith says, shaking his head a little. He suppresses a bit of a shiver.

 

“Hey, you’re not dropping, are you?” Trott says worriedly.

 

“Nah?” Smith says weakly. He doesn’t bother to point out that Trott has seen him dropping more times than he can count, after he staggered round to his in the middle of the night with his head fucked into a downward spiral. 

 

“Come here, you twat,” Trott says, and grabs him close. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. I’ve not got a problem with Ross, it’s just a bit of a tricky thing to negotiate, you know.”

 

Trott is warm and his grip surprisingly tight. Smith relaxes. “Yeah. I just… I want you guys to get on.”

 

“We do.” Trott squeezes him closer just as Ross comes back into the room, awkwardly juggling the glasses of water.

 

“You all right?” he asks with a smile, setting one of them down and swinging the door closed with his foot. 

 

“Yeah, we’re good,” Trott says, accepting his glass. “Ta.” 

 

Smith takes his too, and gratefully takes a sip. He didn’t realise how parched he was until the glass is almost finished. He hears Trott tut above his head, and then both Ross and Trott both make a move to pour some of their water into his glass, which makes him laugh. 

 

“I’m fine, honestly.”

 

“I’m worried about you dropping,” Trott says sincerely. “Drink up.”

 

Smith rolls his eyes, but accepts the two of them clumsily sloshing some extra water in the direction of his glass. “Thanks guys. Now I’m soaked.”

 

“Quit complaining,” Ross says, reaching for his bag. “Kit Kat?”

 

“He’s always like this,” Smith reassures Trott as Ross throws one across to him. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“Thanks,” Trott says. 

 

Ross moves in a bit closer, ruffles Smith’s hair again, gives a happy sigh. “Feeling better?”

 

Smith nods. He wants to be close as possible to the both of them, and he feels beyond exhausted, but his mind is quiet at last, and the cold feeling has gone. “Yeah, I’m good. Tired, though.”

 

They sit and chat a bit longer, but eventually Trott gives a bit of a stretch and a yawn behind him. “I really should be going,” he says regretfully.

 

“Are you sure?” Smith asks, rolling over to face him better. He still feels… unsure about Trott leaving, but he doesn’t want to be weird about it. 

 

“Not really room for me for me here,” Trott says with an apologetic smile. “I don’t know how you two giants fit in this bed, let alone me.”

 

The obvious comment - _it’d be weird for all of us to share a bed (again)_ \- goes conspicuously unsaid, but Smith is too worn-out to think too hard about it.

 

“OK. See you tomorrow, probably?” he manages, stifling a yawn himself. 

 

“Yeah. I’ll text you.”

 

“Thanks,” Ross says. “We couldn’t have done this without you, you know that, right?”

 

Trott smiles, but there’s something about the corners of his mouth that make it look forced, somehow. “No problem. Any time. Let me up, Smith.”

 

Smith groans slightly in protest but lets him up. Trott quickly gathers his stuff. “See you, Ross. Look after him,” he quips with a joking raise of his eyebrows, nodding in Smith’s direction, but he’s gone before Smith has a chance to complain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, sorry for the looong gap in-between updates. I have so little time in the evenings by the time I get home from work, and I swear the weekends just vanish before my eyes (excuses excuses I know). BUT YAY TEAM-WORK AND SMITH FEELING BETTER, FINALLY. Don't worry I still have Plans (ish) for where this is going, and ok I'll just confess next chapter will probably be just about pure porn because look when was the last time I just gave you fun uncomplicated porn? (Probably never but still.) Hope you enjoyed, please leave me a comment, they make me grin like an idiot at work and inspire me to keep writing :) And many thanks to rathernotsay for keeping me excited about this story and causing me to update :) x


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer: I’m not a doctor. I don’t nearly know nearly enough about breathplay, it’s super dangerous, don’t do it kids (but it’s fun to read about amirite). Thank you to whoever made the comment about wanting to see more breathplay, I can’t find it anywhere but random person this is for you, hope you enjoy!!

“You enjoy last night, then?” Ross says, smirking into Smith’s neck as he places a kiss there. Smith squirms. 

 

“You… know I did… You want me to tell you how clever you are again?”

 

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Ross mumbles, and Smith laughs at him and drags him back up to his mouth again for another kiss.

 

It’s late in the morning by now, but neither of them can be bothered to get dressed. The summer daylight is filtering through Smith’s thin curtains, making the atmosphere in the room dim and warm and close. It was decided that the bed was really too hot with the duvet on, so it was thrown unceremoniously to the floor. Now, however, Ross and his sleep-messy hair are doing a good job of making Smith overheated all over again.

 

“Are you OK with this?” Ross asks as they break apart. Smith takes a while to marvel at his blue blue eyes, and then gives him another quick, spontaneous kiss, his stomach swooping unfairly.

 

“For, like, the fourth time, yes.” 

 

“As long as you’re sure…” Ross noses down the side of Smith’s cheek towards his ear. For a moment, Smith thinks he’s going to whisper something dirty, but then he just very gently nips at his earlobe instead, and Smith’s legs fall open and his eyes shut in a moment.

 

“Anything you fancy doing?” Ross murmurs.

 

“Fucker,” Smith whispers back, and bucks his hips up into Ross’s in retaliation, eliciting a quick gasp. He tries to consider it though. Their tests from the GP came back all clear a while ago (which only served as a frustrating reminder of all the sex he was Not Getting during his dry spell), so technically nothing is really off the menu, but he doesn’t know what he wants.

 

“Something simple?” Ross asks, between trailing slightly aggressive kisses that will probably leave a mark down Smith’s neck and chest. “Something from our list? Something we’ve done before? Something new?”

 

“Stop… fucking… distracting me,” Smith complains, because Ross’s mouth is perilously close to his nipple right now, and he can fucking _see_ that small pink tongue peeping out of his mouth and it is _just too much_. Ross looks up at him saucily, licks his lips, and Smith has to stifle a laugh.

 

“Seriously, come on, come back here…” Smith grabs one of his warm, naked shoulders and pulls Ross back up to lie beside him on the pillow, and then quickly kisses him on the lips again in case he seemed too abrupt. Ross doesn’t seem to mind though.

 

“What do you want, anyway?” Smith asks, once he’s finished distracting himself with Ross’s really very pretty mouth.

 

Ross shrugs. “I really don’t mind.”

 

“This is fucking worse than trying to order a takeaway with you. Come on.”

 

“You want me to come on you?” Ross says, waggling his eyebrows, and Smith groans and tries to grab the duvet again to smother him with. 

 

“Twat. You know what I mean.”

 

“My blowjob offer is still on the table, if you fancy,” Ross says off-handedly. “Or we could go back to basics and just rut against each other like we can’t stop ourselves.”

 

“ _You_ can’t stop yourself,” Smith points out. 

 

“I might not put you under, if that’s OK?” Ross says, a little tentatively. “After last night, I figured you’re covered for a bit…? But if you want…?”

 

“No, no, that’s fine with me. But we could try something else a little bit, like, aspect-stuff?”

 

“OK,” Ross says, as his hand goes (as if magnetically drawn) to ruffle Smith’s hair. “Sounds good. What would you like? I could order you around a bit… Pull your hair…” He gives a meaningful tug, and Smith has to stifle a moan, bastard. “I haven’t stocked up on lingerie yet, I’m afraid… Or I could…?”

 

One finger traces lazily across Smith’s throat, and Smith forgets to breathe.

 

“Yeah. That,” he says after a moment, his voice hoarse, almost stuttering.

 

Ross raises his eyebrows almost comically. “You’re sure? It might be pretty intense. But I’m not going overboard with it - it’s dangerous as fuck, and neither of us know enough about it. Though I did do some, er, research, on it not long ago.” He flushes a little.

 

Smith smirks. “How about you tell me about that research? Though I swear to God, if you get out a Powerpoint, I am fucking leaving.”

 

Ross rolls his eyes. “Nothing like that. But how about I… show you a bit, at the same time?”

 

“OK,” Smith says, his cockiness gone.

 

“You good with your safeword? We won’t be going far enough that we’ll need anything else.”

 

“Yup, got it.” 

 

“OK,” Ross says, and rolls over on to his hands and knees, so he’s positioned above Smith, bracing himself so their faces are level. Smith has come to really appreciate this position. “So, the first thing… Sometimes it’s not even about _doing_ anything, it’s just about _thinking_ about it.”

 

Smith opens his mouth to make a snarky comment, but Ross swoops in and kisses him before he can speak. Smith closes his eyes to enjoy it. The kiss is gentle and not particularly demanding, but Smith is hyper-aware that one of Ross’s hands is slowly tracing a path from his hip, up his ribcage, past his nipples, tracing along his collarbone… Smith’s breath hitches, and then Ross is oh-so-lightly stroking his neck with a single finger, and Smith feels like his brain is short-circuiting with lust.

 

“Good?” Ross murmurs above him, drawing back, and Smith opens his eyes, finding his gaze locked on to Ross careful expression, though he feels almost paralysed by the sensation at his neck. Ross uses that single finger to nudge his head back a little, baring his throat, and Smith obeys instantly, struggling to keep his hips from grinding desperately upwards towards him. 

 

“I’m not even doing anything,” Ross whispers. “But you know… if I wanted to… I could.”

 

“Fuck,” Smith says. His voice sounds rough and wrecked, but he can barely focus on it when Ross is demanding so much of his attention with a single movement. The finger traces back and forth, and then, very gently, presses down. Smith gasps, digging his nails into the bedsheets to control himself, and then Ross removes his hand, and Smith lowers his head a little, gulping in air. 

 

“Works very well, doesn’t it?” Ross says, sounding smug. Smith doesn’t have time to answer back, because the fingers are back at his throat again.

 

“Now this…” Ross moves his fingers up and down the centre of Smith’s throat, brushing over his Adam’s apple. There’s hardly any pressure, but Smith can still feel it when he swallows. “Is your trachea, it gets air to your lungs. We don’t mess with that.”

 

“Is this a fucking Biology lesson?” Smith croaks, but Ross ignores him. His fingers move outwards, to either side of Smith’s windpipe.

 

“But _these_ …” Ross presses down very lightly. “Are your carotid arteries. And they get the oxygenated blood to your brain. So actually, to get you light-headed, we can focus _here_ instead.”

 

Smith gasps a few times. He knows logically that Ross hasn’t been messing about nearly long enough to have any effect, but he’s right, just the _thought_ of it is enough. In fact, taking in too much air through his heaving breathing is practically making him light-headed already. It feels good. Really fucking good. He’s so hard already. 

 

Ross takes his hand away for a moment. “You doing all right?”

 

“Yeah, good. Loving the presentation,” Smith manages, though he knows it’s painfully obvious how turned on he is. Just to emphasise the point, Ross lets his stare travel slowly down Smith’s body until he focuses meaningfully on his crotch, and Smith twitches self-consciously. 

 

“Want me to do something about that?” Ross says teasingly. 

 

Smith calls his bluff. “Yeah, go ahead.”

 

“All right then.” Ross’s left hand slips easily into his boxers, and Smith’s attempt to keep a straight face is instantly sabotaged. He lets out a little moan without meaning to, and then flushes at Ross’s answering grin.

 

“I’m going to run out of hands,” Ross complains, and shifts on to his side so his right hand is free to tug at Smith’s hair. Smith lets himself be pulled around with a groan, arching his neck back as much as he can. When he’s happy with the position, Ross’s hand returns cautiously to his throat, more feeling around than pressing hard, but Smith jolts with arousal all the same. 

 

“Are you sure you’re still good?” Ross whispers as he kisses at Smith’s neck, and Smith nods jerkily in response. “You still OK with marks?”

 

“ _Please_ ,” Smith hisses brokenly. He doesn’t plan on much socialising in the next few days - he can wear a hoody around the housemates if need be, and the only people who would see him close up would be Ross and Trott anyway, and the idea of either of them seeing him littered with love bites is fine. More than fine.

 

His thoughts are quickly derailed by Ross sucking gently at his skin. Smith’s hands, which had been occupied with the bedsheets, jump up to catch at the back of Ross’s head. Ross pauses, clearly expecting Smith to pull him away, but Smith pushes him closer instead. He needs _more_. Ross chuckles quietly, and leans back in, though not for long.

 

“There,” he says quietly, kissing at Smith’s newly over-sensitive skin. “Suits you.”

 

Smith snorts, but he runs his finger over the area. He wants to see it, but right now he has more important priorities, like dragging Ross towards him for a messy snog, and bucking his hips to encourage the hand job to carry on already. 

 

“You are… so impatient…” Ross mumbles, but apparently decides to redouble his efforts to make Smith lose control. Smith can feel Ross hard against his leg though, so apparently the feeling is mutual. He bobs his thigh a little between gasps, just to see the look on Ross’s face as he rubs against him.

 

“So… d’you wanna… bugger around… with the rest of… the breathplay shit?” Ross asks, in between thrusts. “Or d’you want me to just bring you off?”

 

“Tiny bit more,” Smith wheedles breathlessly, and Ross grins, showing his teeth.

 

“You asked for it.”

 

His right hand inches up to Smith’s face, hovers above his mouth. Smith’s eyes dart to meet Ross’s.

 

“You cool with this?” Ross asks concernedly. “It’s OK if you’re not, but I won’t go far with it.”

 

“I’m good,” Smith says, and that’s all he gets out before Ross closes his hand across his whole mouth. The edge of his pinky rests just below Smith’s nose; his thumb strokes gently along the underside of his chin. He’s not pressing particularly hard, but the power of it is completely undeniable, and Smith gives a muffled groan into his palm. 

 

“See, like this,” Ross says, sounding a little bit calmer now Smith’s efforts to rub up against him have fallen by the wayside in the face of this distraction, though he still keeps up the firm, steady stroking of Smith’s dick. “I can really easily… do this.”

 

He pushes his hand up a fraction, and his little finger almost completely covers Smith’s nostrils. Smith draws in a breath, and the stream of air that comes in seems woefully insufficient. But then immediately Ross moves his hand back down again, so Smith can breathe normally. 

 

“All right?”

 

Smith nods vigorously, because goddamn this is so good, and Ross chuckles at him. “Shame I can’t kiss you like this. At least it stops you talking though.”

 

Before Smith can retaliate, Ross shifts his hand again, and Smith becomes utterly focused on dragging the little air that he can into his lungs. Ross releases him again after only a moment though.

 

“How about you hold your breath yourself?” he says teasingly. “Do you think you can do that?”

 

Smith glares and rolls his eyes, but nods again, or at least as best he can with Ross’s hand so firm against his mouth. The room suddenly seems so quiet that his stuttering breathing is unnaturally audible. In. Out. In. 

 

“Hold it,” Ross says, and Smith does. Now that sound has been removed, it’s all too easy to hear the sound of Ross’s other hand on his dick, which should be disgusting but nope it really isn’t, and Smith has to stifle a whimper. 

 

The seconds count by. Smith feels a little like he should be bored, but he’s positively compelled. He can't tear his eyes away from Ross's face. There’s something about the balance of his self-control and the power that Ross is holding over him that is just intoxicating. He releases a tiny puff of air out of his nose to relieve the pressure building in his lungs. His arousal, too, is climbing and climbing; his leg twitches. 

 

He’s not quite got to the desperate stage when Ross says, “OK, you can breathe,” but he still sucks in the air gratefully, as if Ross really had been physically preventing him until that moment. The hand still over his mouth still makes the fact that he _could_ painfully obvious though. His arousal has ebbed very slightly, but his legs are still shaking a little. 

 

“OK?” Ross asks quietly, smirking again. His strokes have slowed, as if to bring Smith down gradually, and Smith squirms in frustration, but nods in response. “This time, I want you to tap your hand on the bed when you want to breathe, OK?”

 

Smith nods again.

 

“Good. One, two, three, hold it.”

 

Smith draws in as deep a breath as he can manage, and holds it. This feels so unlike him - controlling himself for once instead of challenging his partner to do it for him, staying silent - it’s basically the opposite of his usual MO but he’s still enjoying it far too much. This time, however, he starts to run out of oxygen far quicker than before, because he hadn’t managed to get his breathing back to normal before Ross had asked again. Still, he holds out as long as he can, feeling the need to gulp in air rising, and rising, and rising, as Ross watches him intently, just a bit longer, just a bit… No, no, he has to…

 

He bangs his right hand down on the sheet and Ross immediately says, “And breathe, well done, Smith, well done.”

 

The moment before he gives in and heaves in air, the sensation in his cock seems to intensify for a moment - his toes curl and he thinks for a second that he’s going to come, but he doesn’t quite make it before he has to obey and breathe again. He grunts in frustration as he gasps for breath, and Ross laughs.

 

“One more time, Smith, you’ve been so good.”

 

Smith gives him a baleful stare and tries to communicate that telling him how good he’s been really isn’t helping the situation, but it’s not like he hasn’t got other things to focus on, like how pleasantly giddy he feels now.

 

“You sure you’re still good?”

 

Smith gives him an irritable thumbs up, and then the finger, and then points in the direction of his dick in a way that he hopes communicates “you’re fucking killing me here.”

 

“Should have known you wouldn’t be one for delayed gratification,” Ross teases, and gives the upward stroke of his hand an accompanying twist that makes Smith’s legs tremble again. “Just one more, though, OK? Ready?”

 

Smith nods, steels himself…

 

“And hold it.”

 

Smith could’ve sworn this was so easy the first time. Now he doesn’t know whether he’s fighting Ross or himself, after only a few seconds he can feel his pulse rushing in his ears, each stroke of Ross’s hand is really agonisingly delicious torture, he’s feeling ridiculously desperate for air what seems like moments in, he can’t take his eyes off Ross’s face, this is _impossible_ , Ross isn’t even stopping him from breathing, it’s all down to him, it’s all in his own head, he’s in no danger, he could just give up right now, but no, he’s holding it for Ross, he can do this, he can hear himself releasing little whines around Ross’s hand that he just can’t stop, he can’t tell if Ross’s hand is getting tighter and faster on his dick or whether his dizzy mind is just amplifying the sensation, oh God he needs to breathe, he’s so desperate, he feels almost weak with arousal and lack of air which is really pushing his buttons, just a few more seconds, he can’t hold on any more, just a little longer, five more seconds, four more, three, two, one…

 

He bangs his hand on the bed. 

 

And for an absolutely excruciating moment, Ross says nothing, and Smith feels trapped, his lungs feel like they’re about to burst, his hand is trembling, his heels are digging into the sheets…

 

“And _breathe_ ,” Ross says, removing his hand from Smith’s mouth, and Smith’s orgasm surges unstoppably a moment only an instant before he gulps in air, and he comes with a strangled shout-sob-groan in his boxers. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I always finish chapters with Smith finally coming? Is it because the gap between chapters naturally mimics the pause in the sex action between the characters/Smith's thoughts? Is it because I get myself too hot and bothered and have to stop somewhere? Is it because I'm a bit of a lazy writer and it just feels like a good place to give myself a break? Who knows... (it's the last one). Thanks as usual for reading and commenting, and PLEASE shout out any ideas for future chapters you'd like! I love getting inspiration from you guys! I might be talking on tumblr a bit about where to go with this story next so I won't give any spoilers here but come see me if you want to chat x


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm, look who the cat dragged in, six months late. It's me, and my trash writing. I'M SORRY I WAS GONE SO LONG PLEASE ENJOY

Smith actually shimmies out of his boxers once he recovers a little, wiping himself on the inside of them, because ugh, they’re filthy anyway now, and he doesn’t like being stickier than he needs to. Ross is watching him with a wry smile, but Smith doesn’t need to look down to know how aroused he is. As soon as he’s shoved his boxers out of the way, he makes a grab for Ross, dragging him into a messy kiss.

 

“Enjoy that, you pervert?” he mutters into Ross’s mouth as Ross groans in surprise and pleasure.

 

“Ugh, you know I did,” Ross mumbles back. “Holding you down is so good… You were so good…”

 

“You were pretty great yourself,” Smith acknowledges, and pulls back a little. “So, what do you want?”

 

Ross hesitates, but the way his eyes dart down to Smith’s lips is unmistakeable. Smith opens his mouth slowly with a faux-coy expression, and watches Ross swallow nervously. “Want me on my knees again, do you?” 

 

Ross flushes a little, but nods. “If you’re OK with that? I don’t mind…?”

 

“Don’t be stupid, of course I am,” Smith says nonchalantly, and gives Ross a lascivious smirk before turning to grab a condom from the bedside table. A moment later, he realises that they don’t technically need condoms, but the drawer is half-open already, and he pauses in indecision. 

 

“We can still use a condom if that’s what you’re more used to,” Ross supplies.

 

“Well, I am…” Smith hesitates. He’s never had a committed enough partner that they got tested, and even if any of his hook-ups had, he wouldn’t have trusted them enough to believe the “results”. The inconvenience of condoms is well worth dodging that risk. But even though that risk isn’t relevant here, he’s never gone without, and it feels a bit weird. “Are you sure you’d be OK with that? Just for now, it’s not that I don’t trust you or anything, we can…”

 

“Right now anything that’ll stop me coming as soon as you get your mouth on me is probably a good shout,” Ross says tightly, and that settles it. Smith grabs a packet, nimbly tears it open as he turns back to Ross, and manoeuvres himself so that he’s half-kneeling in front of Ross, who’s arranged semi-reclined back on the pillows now. 

 

“You ready?” he asks quickly, and at Ross’s nod, pulls down his underwear without ceremony. Ross flinches a little at the sudden exposure, and goddamn he looks almost painfully hard - he must have bene really enjoying watching Smith. 

 

“ _More_ than ready,” Smith says smugly, and rolls the condom on, giving Ross a few quick strokes at the base once he gets there, just to see his reaction. 

 

“Fuck, Smith,” Ross breathes, and Smith makes sure their eyes are locked as he leans over to tentatively take just the head into his mouth. He’s not reserved about it, he just wants to torment Ross a bit, because he deserves it. Having a big mouth has its advantages - there’s room to take in the tip and still have the freedom to move his tongue teasingly around it. Ross shudders and groans beneath him.

 

“Starting to think,” Smith says conversationally, lifting his head to speak and then sliding the head briefly back into his mouth between phrases. “That you don’t want to hear me talk. First the hand over my mouth. Now this.”

 

At the end of the sentence he takes Ross in just a little deeper. What with the condom and his own saliva, Ross’s cock slips in and out ridiculously easily, and judging from the flush to Ross’s face and chest and the way his hand is clenching at the pillows, it’s driving him mad. 

 

“Don’t make me choose,” Ross manages. “Don’t stop, Smith, oh God…”

 

Smith takes pity and takes him a little deeper, but pulls up a moment later. “Well maybe I can…” He bobs his mouth down briefly. “Keep doing a bit of both.”

 

“Don’t think you’ll need to keep it up for long,” Ross says through gritted teeth. “I’m close already.”

 

“Mmmm,” Smith says consideringly, humming around Ross’s cock as if in thought (producing a ragged “fuck” from the end of the bed). He pulls off again, very slowly, looking at Ross through his eyelashes. “Guess we could see how deep I can go.”

 

“Smith,” Ross gasps, and Smith can’t resist a wink as he begins to lower his mouth incredibly slowly. He’s always found it surprisingly easy to relax his jaw, and he can just keep going, and going, and going… Until Ross actually pulls him off with shaking hands. 

 

“Don’t, fucking, shit, Smith, don’t hurt yourself.”

 

Smith catches his breath and gives him a reassuring grin. “Sorry, prefer to do that yourself, would you?” He grabs Ross’s hands and sets them firmly in his hair. He remembers he had to do that last time as well - for such a pervert, Ross is just too much of a gentleman. “Go on!” he says encouragingly, as Ross hesitates. “I’ll let you know if I want you to stop.”

 

The tension is written clearly in Ross’s face, in his clenched arms and cautious hands. “You sure?”

 

“Do it,” Smith says, and then deliberately opens his mouth wide and inviting. Ross gives a quiet groan, and then very cautiously pushes Smith’s head down, so his cock slowly slides between his lips again. Smith raises his eyebrows in challenge, and Ross pushes a fraction further, before pulling him almost off again. 

 

“Keep going,” Smith prompts, and Ross gives another strangled sound, and pushes him down again, up, down, up, down. The pace increases infinitesimally slowly, but the tug at Smith’s hair isn’t unpleasant, far from it, and he can watch Ross struggle to control the desire betrayed by his twitching hips to just fuck up into Smith’s mouth already. For his part, Smith just keeps his jaw as relaxed as he can, tries not to drool everywhere, and enjoys watching Ross’s caution steadily transform into desperation.

 

“Oh God, Smith, you… fuck… Jesus…” Ross’s orgasm, when it comes, seems to completely exhaust him, and Smith is pleased he left his boxers within easy reach to clean up the mess, so he can crawl towards him and enjoy kissing his parted, flushed lips as he catches his breath. 

 

“You’re… gonna kill me,” Ross murmurs into his mouth, and Smith grins. 

 

“Come on, I’m not too much for you, am I?”

 

Ross opens his eyes properly and smirks. “Not quite, I don’t think.” 

 

“Mm, good.”

 

Ross kisses him again, slowly, and then pulls back and traces the mark he left low on Smith’s neck, just above his collarbone. Smith closes his eyes for a moment to enjoy the sensation. He feels warm and satisfied and spent. He guesses it’s only to be expected that he feels so wiped out, after all, this has been his first orgasm in ages, and it’s nice to nuzzle into Ross’s touches and shuffle close to him for warmth. 

 

After a few soft, quiet moments, Ross says quietly, “Can we talk about last night?”

 

“Hm?” Smith replies inquiringly, not bothering to open his eyes, but struggling to keep the smile off his face. Just like Ross to run over everything carefully after the event. 

 

“You were happy with how it all went?”

 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Smith says, squinting open one eye. “I said. It was great. You enjoyed it, right?”

 

“Yeah, it was really good.” Ross stretches slightly, adjusting his position. “I was just wondering… would you want to do it again?”

 

Smith’s heart is beating faster again now. He pauses to consider, but there’s really only one honest answer, not taking into account the practical considerations. “Well… Yeah, I would, really. What about you?” He’s paying full attention now, despite himself, and watches carefully for Ross’s reaction. 

 

Ross nods. “Yeah, I would too.”

 

“Do you think Trott…?”

 

“We’d have to ask. I think he was good with it though.” 

 

“What if…” Smith pauses. “It might just have been because he wanted to, y’know, help.”

 

Ross gives him a considering look. “Well, you know him better than I do. But I don’t think so, mate. I mean, we’d need to talk him about it.”

 

"Yeah, yeah, obviously. I could call him?"

 

Ross nods. "Do it once you're back home, so you don't have me…" He wrinkles his nose. “Getting in the way.”

 

“Nah, don’t need to worry about that,” Smith says teasingly. “It’s your ugly mug distracting me that’s the real issue.” Ross swats at him.

 

 

***

 

A few hours later, and Smith is lying on his bed, tossing his phone from hand to hand, summoning the courage to just call Trott already. He's already texted him "hey you free to talk?”, and got a "yeah sure as long as you ring me I'm nearly out of minutes" in response, so he really hasn't got an excuse.

 

He sighs, tries not to think about the million ways this could go wrong, and hits call already.

 

“So. Smith,” Trott says seriously, once they’ve got over the initial greetings and Smith pretending to care about Trott’s project.

 

“That doesn’t sound good,” Smith says jokingly, rolling on to his back again, the phone still held to his ear, staring at the ceiling.

 

Troff huffs; Smith just knows he’s rolling his eyes. “Come on. I thought you were all about the communication nowadays.”

 

“Ughhhh, Tro-otttt,” Smith grunts noncommittally. “Yeah. Well. I dunno.”

 

“Come on, mate.” Trott sounds a little hurt, which makes Smith feel bad. “Look, I’ll be honest, this is partly what worried me about… messing about with you Ross. I don’t want you to feel that you can’t talk to me, y’know?”

 

“No, it’s not that…” Smith sighs again, covering his eyes as if avoiding Trott’s non-existent gaze. “I want to talk, it's just that... I don't know where to start."

 

“Well, for a start, how’re things are going with you and Ross?"

 

Smith gives a slightly more positive but still confused groan. “It’s… good, I guess?”

 

“You guess?”

 

“Well… It’s weird because I don’t really know what I want from him.” Smith gestures with his right hand before giving up and running it through his hair instead. “So sometimes I worry he’s being, like, too… relationshippy? Like he kissed me before he left earlier, but… That was nice, y’know? And then I think ‘why the fuck am I worried, would it be so bad if we just dated?’, and then I start freaking out because fuck, do I want to date him?”

 

“You’re overthinking it,” Trott says, so flatly that Smith laughs.

 

“I know, I know. But you asked how it was going, so… That’s my answer, I guess. I don’t really know.” Smith fiddles with the edge of his duvet - one of the buttons on the cover is coming loose. “I get on with him as a friend, the sex is great… And then I wonder whether I want to date him, and then I have to think about what would _change_ if we put a label on it like that… And I’m not really sure anything would? I still wouldn’t really want people to know about us. And with theaspect stuff the whole aftercare thing means that any line between just sex and romance is completely fucked anyway, so… ugh, I don’t know.”

 

“It’s OK not to know,” Trott points out gently.

 

“Yeah, I _guess_ ,” Smith says, with a heavy sigh.

 

“It really is, though. Sometimes shit doesn’t fit into neat little boxes.”

 

“What box do you and me and him fit in?” Smith asks recklessly, and then immediately regrets it. His stomach plummets.

 

There’s a short moment of silence on the other end of the line, and then he hears Trott exhaling slowly through his teeth.

 

“Jeez, Smith… I don’t know. Have you and Ross… talked about this?”

 

“Yeah. A bit, this morning. He just asked whether I’d want to do something again with you… I said yeah… Well, I did a lot more overthinking than that, but you get the picture, and then he said he felt the same way, and that we should ask you and see what you thought.”

 

“OK.” Trott falls silent again for a little. Smith picks at the skin at the edge of one of his nails. 

 

“I mean, you know how I felt about the aspect stuff between you and me when we were at school,” Trott says, after a long pause.

 

“Yeah…” Smith clears his throat a little. “You thought it would mess things up between us, you weren’t up for it.”

 

“Yeah, well, that, and also…” Trott makes a tired little groaning noise. “I didn’t want to take advantage of you, Smith. You were in a seriously bad place. But I feel bad for that, because I didn’t want to hurt you, but other people did, so it was kinda… meaningless for me not to help.”

 

“No, I… I think you were right,” Smith says slowly. “I… I dunno, I feel differently about it. I’m not asking because I need someone, anyone. If I needed something, I’ve got Ross. But… I liked you being there. I want to do it again. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that, I guess.”

 

“Yeah.” Trott sighs again. “But I… I don’t want to mess up anything between you and Ross, either. I’m not exactly sure where I… fit.”

 

“Is that why you were a bit off, last time, after?” Smith ventures.

 

The silence from Trott goes on so long that he begins to worry he’s crossed a line, which he basically never does with Trott, but then Trott says hesitantly, “Well, yeah, maybe, I guess. I didn’t want to get in the way of the aftercare stuff you two were doing, because, well, it’s super personal for some people, and I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable with me there, or how Ross would feel.”

 

He pauses again.

 

“Also it’s weird because Ross isn’t really Domming me, and I don’t really want him to, I don’t _think_ , and so, well, like I said, I didn’t know how I’d fit in.”

 

“You don’t feel like Switching around him then?” Smith asks, trying to keep his tone casual. It’s a pretty fucking personal question, but he can’t help but feel a tiny tinge of disappointment that maybe Trott could kind of fit in the middle of them. Though now he specifically tries to imagine that dynamic, it doesn’t sit quite right with him anyway.

 

“Ermm… Not really,” Trott says quietly. “I don’t really want to… get into it. But no, not at the moment, anyway.”

 

“Well, fair enough,” Smith says, with forced jocularity. “It’s not like the two of you can’t just Dom the fuck out of me together.”

 

“Is that what you want?” Trott asks, suddenly serious, and Smith’s stomach does a funny swoop as he realises what he just said. 

 

“Well, I… I mean… I guess it depends what you mean,” he tries to bluff. 

 

Trott snorts with laughter. “Smith, I know you too well not to tell when you’re turned on.”

 

Smith feels himself flushing, and sits back up on the bed, feeling suddenly a bit foolish. “I… what? I…”

 

“Smith, you are my best mate,” Trott says bluntly. “And if you can’t tell me you’re not a bit turned on at the thought of a threesome, I am disowning you.” 

 

Smith starts laughing, and once he’s started, he can’t stop. Trott joins in after a few seconds, and it’s just like old times, no complicating factors, no Danny to worry about, no weird feelings, just two mates giggling hysterically into their phones. 

 

“OK,” Smith manages finally. “I might… _might_ be interested in that. Are you?” His tone is still light-hearted, but he has a sudden, vivid, and unexpected flash of memory - of them sitting together on his bed, when they were maybe fourteen, and looking at Trott’s lips and wondering what it would be like to kiss them. To _joke_ about shagging Trott is one thing, but actually letting those words come out of his mouth, Jesus, what…

 

“ _Might_ be,” Trott says coyly, and Smith snorts, half with laughter, half in relief.

 

“Seriously though, what would you be comfortable with? If we just went ahead and did this thing. You know this kind of thing about me more than I know it about you.”

 

Trott clicks his tongue. “Look, I’ve got no idea what you and Ross are up for…”

 

“Yeah, but if you never say, we’ll never do anything, because we’ll all just be sitting around too scared to say what we think,” Smith argues. “I’ve put my cards on the table. Sort of.”

 

Trott huffs, and then exhales slowly. “All right. Well. I’m up for sexual stuff in _theory_ , but Smith… Negotiating that kind of thing is enough of a hassle with two people, let alone three. Let’s take it slow. I don’t know what Ross will think of me being involved in that way, and…”

 

“You’re not answering the fucking question _at all_ ,” Smith protests.

 

“Fine, fine. Let’s just say for the moment that _if_ (and that’s a fucking massive if), you two were comfortable with doing sexual stuff, just the two of you, while I was there, then that would be good with me. And… let’s leave it like that for the moment, OK? Let’s not run before we can walk.”

 

“OK,” Smith concedes, figuring that’s the best answer he’s going to get for the time being. His heart is pounding hard enough as it is, and he reckons Trott is probably feeling the same way. 

 

“So,” Trott says. “That’s me. Have you and Ross talked about what you want to do? If we do it again?”

 

“Not really,” Smith confesses. “We thought we should ask you first… I was thinking though. You should be around when we discuss what we’re going to do. So we’re all in the loop.”

 

“Hmmm. Would you be OK with that? Do you think Ross would be?”

 

“Don’t see why not,” Smith says. 

 

“You could both come round mine,” Trott says. “A few more of my housemates are going home tonight and tomorrow, so there’ll only be a few of us left. So maybe Thursday? Once the moving-out madness is over.”

 

“OK cool, your room is the biggest anyway. Sounds good to me. I'll talk to Ross."

 

They talk a little longer, but Smith hangs up the phone with his head still buzzing. He wants to see them both _now_. But in the absence of that, at least he can try and make plans and think about what he wants from a scene (fuck, he can really call it that) with the two of them, which is an entertaining enough pursuit in itself. He’s not used to having this space to consider and plan ahead, and to be honest it’s not really his style, but his previously spontaneous/reckless approach doesn’t work quite so much when you’re fooling around with people you care about. 

 

He calls Ross to let him know what's going on, but Ross mentions going out with some of his other course mates, so in the end Smith has an enjoyable, if frustrating, evening alone. It's quite nice to get some time to himself though - he hadn't realised how much he'd been clinging to Ross the last week or so. Though by the next day he's actually got temporarily bored enough of gaming and his own thoughts to actually _consider_ doing some work, and emailing his supervisor about a meeting. (Obviously he doesn’t actually end up _doing_ the work, but it’s the thought that counts, right?)

 

They arrange to meet at Trott's at two on Thursday, and Trott mentions that they could stay the night if they wanted, and damn, Smith isn't going to turn that down, even if he has got to go and see his supervisor the following morning. He might rather die than admit it, but the idea of cuddling up with the two of them is really very appealing (and far too sappy and romantic, ugh, what has he become?). So he wakes up really late on Thursday morning, grabs a very late breakfast, and hasn't long finished getting ready at a leisurely pace and throwing his controller, a spare shirt and underwear into a bag before it's time to go. He’s trying his best to ignore the butterflies in his stomach.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I'm super sorry about the hiatus, guys. I'm going to do one massive author's note once I've finished off this story so I won't ramble here. One more chapter to go, and that should be up soon, I swear. Comments are love as always, though I know I don't deserve them haha xx


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this possibly actually getting to Hatsome?? Surely not. Enjoy!

When he turns up at Trott's, Ross is already there, awkwardly waving off one of Trott's housemates and her harried mother from the front of the accommodation block. 

 

"All right, you pricks?" Smith asks through a manic gritted-teeth smile as he waves enthusiastically at the departing car, in a gesture he's well aware makes it look like he's a little too glad to see her go.

 

"Yeah, good," Ross says mildly, and Trott nods too.

 

"Yeah, house looks like a bomb's hit it but at least it's quiet now. Come in -look what I got."

 

The two of them follow him into the house, and Trott triumphantly flings open the door of his room to reveal... two mattresses. Both on the floor. His naked bed frame has been turned on its side and tucked out of the way against the side wall as much as possible.

 

"What do you think? I borrowed it off Duncan in return for helping carry all his crap down the stairs."

 

"Looks good, Trotty!" Smith exclaims in glee, though glancing behind him at Todd, he sees that Ross looks decidedly pink-cheeked. "Come on, Ross, not getting cold feet, are you?"

 

"Oh GFY," Ross says, stepping over the mattresses so he can nab Trott’s desk chair. Smith just flings himself dramatically headfirst on to the mattress inside and then rolls over and strikes a faux-seductive pose, putting one finger to his pouted lips. Trott rolls his eyes as he closes and locks the door behind him. Despite himself, Smith finds himself feeling a little bit more serious at that sight.

 

“So,” Trott says, sitting next to Smith and miraculously keeping a straight face despite Smith’s (clearly hilarious, in his opinion) pose. “Have you had any more thoughts about what we’re going to do?”

 

“Why am I always the ideas man?” Smith complains, relaxing out of the ridiculous face he’s been pulling and stretching his arms lazily above his head.

 

“Because I _hope_ you know your limits,” Trott says seriously. “And if you suggest it, Ross and I know we aren’t crossing a line.”

 

“ _Fine_ ,” Smith groans, though it’s all an act really, because actually after two days by himself he really does have some good ideas. “So, I’ve been thinking - a couple of things actually.”

 

“Knew it,” Ross mutters behind him. Smith ignores him.

 

“I thought maybe… I’d like to try with Trott taking me under. Doesn’t have to be deep or anything, just to see how we get on.”

 

Trott nods, and then Smith adds. “Plus… I want to make Ross jealous.”

 

“Yeah right,” Ross grumbles, but he doesn’t sound convincing. Smith hopes he isn’t taking it too seriously though, because he is worried that Ross will feel left out somehow, with things being so… new and different with Trott.

 

“What do you think, Trott?”

 

Trott thinks about it for a moment, and then leans forward into Smith’s space a bit. Like before, his quiet presence somehow holds a powerful, magnetic quality. “Yeah, I reckon I’m in too. But…” He shrugs. “I’d like to add something, maybe?”

 

Smith pulls a face to hide how curious he is. “My ideas not good enough already, eh? Yeah, what is it?”

 

Trott flashes a teasing smile. “When I first take you under. I don’t want to be leaving Ross out.”

 

“No?” Smith says, with bated breath. Trott glances away from him, and stares at Ross instead. Smith’s eyes follow his. Ross looks a little like a rabbit in the headlights.

 

“I’d quite like to be telling you what to do with him,” Trott says slowly. 

 

“Oh _fuck_ yes!” Smith says immediately, and then quietens under a glance from Trott. He knows that suggestion was more framed as a question for Ross than for him.

 

“Ross?” Trott asks gently, and this is _weird_ , because now Smith feels a bit like he’s the one intruding. “Are you up for that?”

 

Ross is very pink by this stage. “I…”

 

“There’s no pressure,” Trott says quickly, and Smith can feel him back-pedalling, feels a sudden sense of disappointment, because goddamn that would have been good. “Seriously, I know this is like, super early days, and…”

 

“Yeah, I’m up for it,” Ross interrupts him, meeting Trott’s eyes. Smith gives an audible sigh of relief, but he doesn’t think the others notice. Jesus, this is all so fucking new and exciting and hot. He squirms a little.

 

Trott coughs. “Just before we get ahead of ourselves…” He eyes Smith’s wriggling cautiously. “Ross, I don’t know if Smith told you the other day… At the moment I’m thinking, if you two want to get physical with each other while I’m here, I’m good with that, but I’ll… er, sit out… At least physically for the moment.”

 

“Yeah, Smith said,” Ross says. “But for what it’s worth, I’d be…” Smith turns to look at him, and smirks at how the pink in his cheeks has spread to his ears. “I’d be more than up for you joining in. Later. If you were interested.”

 

“Same here,” Smith interjects. “But you know that already.”

 

Trott rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Thanks for the endorsement.”

 

“Take it we’d be using the traffic lights again?” Ross asks.

 

“Yeah, don’t see why not,” Trott says, stretching out his legs. 

 

“Can we also just get the fuck on with it?” Smith asks.

 

Both Trott and Ross look at him in exasperation. God, why do they both have to be so _sensible_? 

 

“Five minutes of discussion about this kind of shit is literally the bare minimum Smith, not overdoing it,” Trott says.

 

“Yeah, but I’m impatient,” Smith whines. He’s worried that the longer they talk about this, the more likely it is than one of them will realise just how crazy this is, and back out. And now he really, really does not want either of them to back out. 

 

Trott glances at Ross. His brown eyes look considering, but not in a bad way. “Well. It’s always going to be made up as we go, anyway. Should we just…?”

 

“Don’t see why not,” Ross says.

 

“Smith?”

 

“Get the fuck _on_ with it,” Smith begins, and Trott turns and grins and takes him under without hesitation.

 

It’s entirely different to how he expected. It’s not that he thought Trott wasn’t going to be good at this, but the way he holds the control over Smith is completely unflinching. He assumes the Dom role with no reservations. It’s not a feeling Smith’s exactly experienced before - he still feels very clear-headed, but there’s no doubt that Trott has complete control over him. He hears Ross give a sudden inhale of shock.

 

“ _Behave_ , Smith,” Trott says, sitting up a little from his relaxed position on the mattress. He reaches a hand forward to touch Smith’s face, and Smith is forced to remain motionless, his breath coming fast in surprise and lust. Trott runs his fingers down Smith’s cheek, and briefly over his lip, and then he glances up at Ross with a smirk. He’s not looking for approval, though - it’s more a sign of camaraderie between the two of them, like Smith is just a toy caught in the middle. Smith wants to see what Ross is doing, but he can’t turn his head. He realises suddenly, not for the first time, that he wants to kiss Trott, not as a joke (to make him laugh or tell Smith off), but for real. 

 

Before he can properly compute that thought, Trott lies back down again, putting his hands behind his head in a leisurely fashion. He looks insufferably smug. 

 

“Much better. Now, how about you make up for that attitude. Get up.”

 

Smith does so, and Trott indicates that he should turn to face Ross. Ross is sitting forward on the desk chair, looking stunned, impressed, and very aroused. He looks smaller than usual, sitting down, and Smith towers above him. It’s a really weird power dynamic, because Smith would probably look pretty imposing at the moment, if it wasn’t Trott pulling his strings.

 

Trott doesn’t say a word, but Smith is compelled to move forward, reaching out for Ross’s face. His stubble is rough under his fingertips, his skin warm. Smith tilts Ross’s head back and kisses him. God, this is hot. Really hot. He wonders how obvious it is to Ross that it’s Trott who’s in control, not him. It’s like Smith’s acting as the go-between for the two of them, and despite his normal craving for attention, it’s surprisingly good. He imagines Trott in his place while Smith himself watches the two of them from the bed. The thought makes his stomach flip, but not in a bad way. 

 

Suddenly, Trott brings him up again, and Smith is left panting for breath, clutching on to Ross’s collar for support, meeting his blue eyes dazedly, wobbling a little on his legs. Ross glances over at Trott; it must be immediately obvious to him what happened.

 

“Holy crap you’re good, Trott,” Smith gasps.

 

“Fucking hell,” Ross says, in a voice that indicates that he thoroughly agrees. He’s staring at Trott with what looks like a mixture of admiration and envy. 

 

Trott grins. “Knew you’d enjoy yourselves. Still green, Smith?”

 

Smith rolls his eyes, because he enjoys being a bratty little shit. “Yeah, of course I…”

 

“Down you go then.” Smith’s hands loosen on Ross’s t-shirt as Trott takes back control. “Jesus, clearly you’ve listened to nothing about being mouthy,” Trott comments. “Knees.” Smith drops to them promptly, glad that the mattress is jammed right up beside the chair to cushion his landing.

 

“Fuck, Trott…” Ross says, his voice strangled. He hesitantly reaches for Smith’s hair, as if asking for permission that Smith can’t give. Trott lets him lean into the touch, though.

 

“Wait, should have asked,” Trott says, his voice a little apologetic, bringing Smith up again. “Smith, are you OK with… erm…”

 

He makes a very odd hand gesture. Smith snorts at him, because it’s pretty hilarious that Trott is basically acting as the director of his own personal porno at the moment but can’t bring himself to say the word ‘blowjob’. 

 

“Sucking him off? More than OK, mate,” he says. “No condom is fine too.”

 

“Fuck,” Ross breathes, and shifts restlessly beneath Smith.

 

Trott smiles, and Smith feels an excited shiver go down his spine. 

 

“Good to hear,” Trott says, and takes him under again. 

 

It’s pretty amazing, having all the hard work of a blowjob taken away from him. Well, not that blowjobs are hard work. But the best part is always being able to watch the other person’s reactions, and now Smith can enjoy that without having to concentrate on the technicalities at all. For a little bit Smith is distracted by the idea that Trott is basically giving this blowjob, and Jesus, who has Trott given blowjobs to in the past? But he’s quickly more focused on the fact that Ross is beautiful like this, and that he gives out tiny, audible whines when he exhales, and that his thigh muscles are trembling under Smith’s hands. 

 

Trott lets Smith up to choose how and where Ross comes, which is considerate of him. Smith thinks about it for a few seconds before aiming down at his own t-shirt, because hey, he’s brought a spare, and he has a feeling this one will be coming off pretty soon anyway.

 

"Jesus Christ, Smith," Ross manages to murmur shakily after a moment. Smith smirks up at him, wipes his mouth obscenely. 

 

"Not me you ought to be thanking, mate," Smith says, and Ross's eyes move across to Trott as if magnetically drawn there. For a moment Smith thinks he is actually about to thank him, but then he seems to snap out of it.

 

"What next?" Ross asks breathlessly.

 

Trott shrugs, but Smith knows him too well - he's pretending to be far less affected than he his. "He's all yours, go ahead. Show me what you usually get up to."

 

Smith suddenly feels a bit breathless himself. 

 

Ross turns back to him. "What do you want?" he asks. 

 

Smith hesitates. He's tempted to go for the most risky suggestion he can think of, straight-off - Ross forcing him under while Trott watches. But he's not entirely sure if he's quite ready for that himself, let alone the other guys. He doesn't want to put them off. Then again, he's only mentally re-scheduling for _later_ , at some point.

 

Instead, he says aloud, "Same as we've done before? The classic up against the wall?"

 

Ross grins. "Good idea."

 

He pulls Smith's shirt off him before Smith can properly process what's happening, zips himself back into his jeans, and then stands and nudges Smith towards the nearest wall, gentle but insistent. Smith goes more than willingly, but he can't help wishing that he could see Trott a little bit better. He wants to know what he's thinking, how he feels watching the two of them. Does he look jealous, curious, interested?

 

"Getting distracted?" Ross breathes in his ear, and Smith flushes, embarrassed. 

 

Ross kisses him, and a moment later Smith’s body finds the wall with a soft thud, just as Ross's hand winds into his hair and gives an experimental tug. The warm weight of him pins Smith in position deliciously. 

 

"You want to know he's watching, don't you?" Ross whispers, and Smith lets out a little whine in response. 

 

"Don't worry, he is. Couldn't take his eyes off you just now. Neither of us could."

 

Ross repositions them a little, so his head is bent into Smith's neck and Smith can see over his shoulder to where Trott is sitting. Ross is right - he's watching intently, his eyes dark, and the sight sends a bolt of heat right through Smith.

 

"Better?" Ross mutters, and Smith nods eagerly, pulling him back into a kiss in gratitude. "How do you want this? D'you want me to take you under?" 

 

Smith nods again, but Ross's answering smirk is a little cruel. 

 

"Sorry Smith, didn't quite catch that. Do you want me to take you under?"

 

"Yes," Smith mutters. 

 

Ross leans in even closer to his ear, and the soft gust of breath there makes the hair on the back of Smith's neck stand on end. "Speak up a bit for Trott. Though you don't have to if you don't want to."

 

Need spirals through Smith again, and he nods once more. 

 

"Do you want to go under?" Ross asks, a little louder again. Smith risks a glance at Trott, but if he knows that they're playing this little game for his benefit, his face doesn't show it. He looks curious and awed. 

 

"Please Ross," Smith says, and by now he’s getting so desperate and impatient that he barely needs to play it up at all. His voice breaks. "Please, take me under. I need it, please…” His voice trails off into a moan as Ross kisses his neck again and drags him under. 

 

It’s so good that’s it’s almost too much. Ross’s hands are eager on his skin, then on his jeans as he unzips them and feels inside. Smith mindlessly clings to him, hears Ross’s hums and whispers of encouragement, his steady breathing, smells the heat and sweat of him, tastes the faint salt on his skin as they kiss, feels his own knees buckle as Ross finally touches him. But his eyes are for Trott alone. Trott is still lounging on the mattress, but his face is flushed, and Ross was right - he can’t take his eyes off Smith. 

 

“You like him watching, don’t you?” Ross whispers, and Smith is sinking deeper and deeper, too far under to properly respond, but knows Ross can feel his answer in the hardness under his hand and see it in his unblinking stare. 

 

“Like him seeing you like this? Vulnerable? Desperate for it?”

 

Smith whimpers. 

 

“Would you like him to do this to you?” Ross murmurs, and Smith comes far sooner than he’d expected, still unable to tear his gaze away from Trott. Ross pulls him up again and physically steadily him against the wall - his legs are shaking. 

 

Smith wrenches his eyes from Trott and meets Ross’s stare, and then, inexplicably, starts laughing.

 

Ross, after a bewildered second, joins in, and Trott does too - that stupid little chuckle where he covers his face.

 

“What the fuck is up with you?” Ross asks, and Smith shakes his head.

 

“It’s just… Jesus _fuck_ , I can’t believe we just… We must be literally off our fucking heads, holy _shit_.”

 

Once they’ve all started laughing, it’s very hard to stop, because as soon as Smith pauses for breath, Ross’s giggle or the way Trott’s shoulders are just silently shaking as he lies back on the mattress set him off again. 

 

By the time they’ve calmed down, Smith has stumbled his way over to the mattress to join Trott, and Ross is back in the desk chair. 

 

“So,” Smith says, elbowing Trott. “Enjoy that, you pervert?”

 

“Yes,” Trott says primly, and Smith fights to keep his laughter under control. 

 

“Repeat performance?” Smith suggests, and Ross gives an outraged snort. 

 

“Give me a chance, mate.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I meant later. We can pick a game now to keep us occupied.”

 

“Sounds good, what have you got, Trott?” Ross asks, and Trott rolls over to face him, and starts listing off all the games he has.

 

Looking over at them, Smith feels a pang. Yet again, he wonders if this is a good idea. Messing around with threesomes is great in the fantasy-space of your own head, sure, and great with people you don’t know too well, but with friends… Jesus. Is this is a terrible idea? It makes it so hard having _feelings_ involved as well, not to mention the fact that he’s not even sure how to define the feelings he has for each of them. 

 

Ross… Jesus, his opinions on Ross have changed so much in such a short space of time that Smith barely feels like he can trust them any more. Hatred, to interest, to wary trust, to affection, to… well. More than affection. Ross looking after him after Danny. Ross actually willing to try out this crazy thing with Trott, firstly to help Smith, and then just because Smith enjoyed it. Ross being dominant and sexy and almost scary with how good he is at pressing Smith’s buttons. But also Ross being nervous, and dorky, and salty when he loses at Trials, and talking for _ages_ about Trott’s fucking project. Ross knowing better than Smith did himself that he wasn’t ready after Danny, and understanding that, and not being at all bothered about waiting. Ross insisting on aftercare, and putting an arm around Smith when he cried that night, and never judging or pushing too hard. Ross never seeming to be bothered that Smith might be too fucked up, too much trouble - just being quiet and patient through it all. And the way he is in the mornings - his hair ruffled, his body warm and sleepy, his eyes hazy with drowsiness but his expression still fond when he looks at Smith.

 

And if anything, how he feels about Trott is even harder to get his head round. Trott’s been his best friend for as long as he can remember. He’s been there through thick and thin, and he’s never been afraid to tell Smith that he’s wrong, or a wanker, or to give him a good talking-to. Trott _cares_ so much, has always protected Smith, no matter how much Smith complained about it. He’s wise and funny and the fact that Smith loves him is basically a given, because come on, everyone loves their best friend if you think hard enough about it, of course you do. But there’s something _else_ there too, something that’s been there since Smith first identified, first asked Trott to take him under. The stupid sexual banter that sometimes felt a _touch_ too real. The hot flashes of jealousy when Trott started dating, which at the time Smith just put down to being a needy friend, which is true enough. The way that Smith had reached for him when he was deep under, expecting a kiss from him as well as from Ross. The way his dark eyes had been fixed on Smith the whole way through the encounter they’d just had. The odd dreams about him Smith has woken from over the years, feeling incredibly guilty and hard as a rock.

 

He’s being greedy, Smith knows he is. Looking at them both now, arguing over video games, the choice is clear. He should choose, one or the other, and not complicate the other’s life any further. Most of the time his life feels like enough of a train wreck anyway, without dragging others into it. Then he has another thought, which is even more painful than the first - maybe the two of them would get on better as a couple. They have a lot in common, they clearly like each other… Maybe they’d be more grounded, more stable without Smith thrown into the mess. 

 

But Smith isn’t, generally speaking, one for altruism. He knows the _sensible_ thing to do, he knows the _cautious_ thing to do, he knows the _responsible_ thing to do… But he’s never really been interested in that. He’s reckless, impulsive, and hell, yeah, greedy. If being greedy means kind of wanting the both of them, even if he doesn’t quite understand the hows and whys and whats of it at the moment… Whether that would just mean the three of them being friends, or him shagging Ross and having Trott look on, or all three of them together sexually, or even all three of them together romantically… who knows. Yeah, Smith is greedy, guilty as charged.

 

“Get over here, Smith,” Trott says, and Smith glances up to see them both looking up at him expectantly. He can tell by the look in Trott’s eyes that he knows that Smith was getting a bit lost in his own head. 

 

“Fine,” Smith grumbles, and flops down on the mattress, side-by-side with Trott, and flings a careless arm around his shoulder. “What are we playing?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is the last chapter, for the moment. Please see my ver ylong author's note, which I've put next in the "series" for anyone who is interested. In the meantime, please leave me comments and IDEAS, I love them so much. Thank you everyone for reading x

**Author's Note:**

> Eek, I'm really excited to see what you guys think of this chapter! I've been planning and thinking about it for so long, inspired by suggestions in the comments firstly from lala and then by ghostofgatsby, so thank you very much to them! (let this serve as a lesson that I'm better at writing than I am at coming up with ideas, so I love to take concepts from comments and run with them!!) Next chapter is written (though needs some work) so should be up soon, but after that I will need some more help and may have a short hiatus. Thank you also to rathernotsay for the encouragement on tumblr, and to vexedbeverage for the excellent title (and to everyone else who gave ideas)! Comments are love, as always, love you guys xxx


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